The Third Quarter Quell: An All-Ages Show
by The Copy Editor's Copy Editor
Summary: A/U - Peeta died in the 74th Hunger Games; there was no Mockingjay and no rebellion. For the 75th Hunger Games, any district citizen of any age may be reaped! Rated for strong language, disturbing material, blood/gore, etc.
1. PROLOGUE: THE CAPITOL

**A/N – Welcome to the 75****th**** Hunger Games! This takes place in a Panem where there was no rebellion, and we see what the third Quarter Quell was **_**supposed**_** to be (I'm firmly of the opinion the Snow rigged the Quell in **_**CF**_**).**

***I had a small run in with FF.N admin, and my story was removed (SAD FACE), so here it is again, with some tweaks so that it hopefully complies a little better with regulations. Breaking the rules is **_**bad**_**, guys, so don't do it (/don't get caught). I've also cleaned up the grammar a little bit here and there. I hope you guys enjoy, I'm having a lot of fun writing this. I'll be putting up chapters 1-15 pretty quickly, and will put up chapter 16 as soon as I finish writing it.***

**Disclaimer – I do not now, nor have I ever owned **_**The Hunger Games**_** or any characters within. They belong to Suzanne Collins.**

CHAPTER ONE - PROLOGUE

_Somewhere in the Capitol…_

It's time! All day I've been antsy, wiggling around in my desk at school. I could barely eat at lunch (which is actually fine, this way I'll look better into my dress when I go see the chariot rides. Maybe I should skip dinner, too). But it's finally here. President Snow is going to announce the Quarter Quell! This will officially kick off the 75th Hunger Games. Last year was _so_ exciting. The star-crossed lovers! Those tribute mutts! And _oh_, the Girl On Fire! I just cried a bucket of tears when Peeta died in that riverbed before she could find him. _She_ didn't cry though, she was brilliant, the way she went after the rest of the tributes. Taking down Cato and Clove from the trees while they were fighting Thresh. Stalking the redhead from 5, driving her mad and offering her the nightlock as a way out. Amazing. And the showdown between her and Thresh, with Katniss on the Cornucopia firing arrows at him to keep him on the ground until the dogs devoured him. It was so exciting! I was on the edge of my seat the whole time. School was actually cancelled during that part, everyone was so into it. This year will have to be really spectacular to surpass last year. I _wonder_ what the twist will be? Ooooooh, here comes the Avox with the Quell box.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of Panem," Snow clears his throat, opens the box, takes out a card marked 75. He talks about the other Quarter Quells—God, I bet those were exciting—before finally getting to this one. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary of the rebellion, to remind the districts that no one ever truly escapes the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the entire population of their district."

OH. MY. GOD. OHMYGOD. This will be _amazing_!


	2. D1 REAPINGS: VICTORS VOLUNTEER

CHAPTER TWO – DISTRICT ONE REAPINGS: VICTORS VOLUNTEER

_Gloss Tiberius_

I'm sharpening my sword when my sister comes into the room. "You ready?" she asks, leaning against the wall and cleaning her fingernails with a knife. Her long blonde hair is braided and flung over her shoulder. She looks like a goddess. One of the dangerous ones who will take your head off if you don't worship her right.

"Sure," I say. "I'm ready." I try to sound confident, but I'm not sure it works. Cashmere raises an eyebrow but says nothing. But I am ready, really. It's been eight years since I was in the arena, and sometimes it feels like I've never left. My life here is boring. It's nothing. I train the tributes, although none have won since me. They're all spoiled, fame-hungry brats. It takes a special kind of person to win the Hunger Games and none of them are that person. I'm that person. So is Cashmere. Which is why we're going back.

I nod at her, and she throws her knife into the table where it sticks up to the hilt. I toss my sword beside it and we walk out the door and out of Victor's Village. Maybe I'll be back, or maybe she will, but not together. We're returning to excitement, to exhilaration, to that special combination of guilt and adrenaline that rushes through your brain when you kill someone. And at least one of us is going to face down death for real this time.

We're the last people to get to the square. The District 1 escort, Twinkle Rose—stupid name, if you ask me—gives us a glare as she finishes her speech about the special rules for the Quell. We don't care. We walk up the stairs to the stage and stand beside her. I turn to the crowd. "We are your District 1 tributes!" I yell. Cashmere grips my hand and raises it over our heads. The crowd roars. _This_ is what District 1 is about! This is how you face a Quarter Quell! Twinkle is beside me, muttering something about how she didn't even get near the reaping ball, but I can tell she's secretly pleased. Getting District 1 is a coup for any escort, and this is an especially exciting year for her.

I grin over the heads of the crowd. My blood is pumping again, my heart is racing. For the first time in 8 years, I can _feel_. These are going to be some great Hunger Games. The other districts better watch out.


	3. D2 REAPINGS: A BLOODTHIRSTY CAREER

**A/N: Hi guys, I hope you guys like this chapter. I know it's pretty short (as are all the chapters so far). I think they may get a little longer once we get into the Capitol and/or arena. I have so many ideas about the Games, you don't even know.**

CHAPTER THREE – A BLOODTHIRSTY CAREER

_Julius Spillers_

This is it, man. This is _it_. I've always been planning to volunteer in the Quarter Quell. What could be cooler than being a Quell Victor? Victor among Victors, man. Best of the best. And now that I know the twist, I'm even more pumped. Gonna be a bunch of children and old gimps in the arena. Ain't nobody that can beat me!

I swing my sword around so hard that it whistles, completely severing the dummy's head. Take that, District 5! I launch a spear that impales the heart of another dummy. You're dead, District 10! I shoot an arrow straight into—oh. Well, it hit his arm and I bet he bleeds to death. So there, District 1! With all my enemies dead I throw my hands in the air and do a Victory Lap around the training center. This is gonna be the _best_. No one can beat me! VICTORY!

After my sixth lap (gotta get that workout in, even when you're celebrating), I jog out the door and down to the town square. This is where it's all going down, man. Normally it's just us kids in the square, but this year's different, man. We got _every_ citizen on call for the reapings. It could be anyone. Except, of course, that it's gonna be me. That's why no one's really worried. This is District 2. We don't weep or wail. We volunteer. We win. My mom, my grandma, they don't have to worry. Even if they're reaped, it won't be them. It'll be some hardbody hottie ready to kill.

Our escort, Ridiculous Kumquat (okay, I don't think that's really her name but I swear that's what she said), finishes giving out the rules to the Quarter Quell—blah blah, any age, blah blah guardian, blah who cares blah—and reaches in to the girls' bowl. "Abigail Smith!" She trills. A girl from the 16s' section jogs up to the platform. She's already waving off offers to volunteer. "I'll do it," she says. She sounds a little annoyed, but calm. She's a tall girl, with brown hair. Looks fit. Looks trained. Looks like a worthy opponent.

I'm already getting ready to charge. I need to be up there. If I can't win the race to volunteer, how can I win the Games? Ridiculous Kumquat is shoving her hand into the boys' ball, making a big show of really feeling around, swirling the little tribute papers. Just call the damn name already! I want to yell at her, but instead I just crouch lower. "Gregory Allman!" she calls, and I'm already charging up there. I headbutt some unsuspecting 14 year old out of the way. I get up to the platform only to see that there's already someone there! It's that jerkwad Blake Bosco. He _is_ _not_ taking this from me. He's climbing onto the platform, but I grab the back of his shirt, and yank him back into the square. He looks ready to fight, so I go ahead and deck him in the nose, just to keep him quiet. I leap onto the platform, telling Ridiculous Kumquat, "Julius Spieler. District Two tribute." This is it, man. I did it. This is _it._


	4. D3 REAPINGS: BABES & GEEZERS

CHAPTER FOUR – BABES AND GEEZERS

_Beatrix Hopper_

Getting the whole family to do anything is like herding cats. Of course, it's been a long time since we've had to mobilize the whole family. There's generally no reason to try to get everyone anywhere. Not even the reaping will get us all out of the house. I myself haven't been to a reaping in 47 years.

It shouldn't have been my last reaping. I should have had two more years of agony before being mercifully free. But that was the year my Benjamin was reaped. Peter was 18, it was his last year. Josephine was 20, already out. But Ben was only 16. He was reaped, and we said goodbye, and I never saw him again. All that was left of him came home in a box, and I never went to see it. That was a hard time for all of us. Peter never really got over it. He spends most of his time in the alehouse. It's really meant for the likes of the mayor's family, the Peacekeepers. I don't know how Peter gets in or how he pays for his liquor. I don't want to know. Jo, bless her heart, never lets on that she misses her brother, either of her brothers. She's a hard lady, my daughter. You have to be, to live in District 3. I guess I must be a hard lady too, to have survived 87 years here.

Yes, it's been awhile since I've been to a reaping. All my grandchildren and great-grandchildren survived without me being there. My great-great-grandchildren are still too young to worry about. And now it's me I need to worry about. Me, and Jo, and Peter, and Jo's daughters, Phillipa, Marguerite, and Corrinne. And their children, whose names I've never bothered to learn. We're all in danger now.

It takes almost an hour to round everyone up. It might take less time if I could learn the little kids' names, instead of calling them all Bunny, but it's too late for that now. We head down to the reaping square and separate into our age categories. I'm not even in the square, I'm out in the street, watching the reaping on a TV the Capitol set up for us. I imagine that they spent a lot of money setting up TVs for all the districts now that they've opened up the reaping to the whole population. Damn waste of money, if you ask me.

I've seen every Game, you know. I was 12 in the first one. We'd just managed to survive the horror of the Rebellion, and now we were subjected to this. It was terrible. Those games were terrible. There was more confusion, more hesitancy. The Bloodbath was barely a bloodbath at all. Some things were there even at the beginning, though. The kids from 1 and 2 were terrors. They were always the lapdogs of the Capitol, even then. Bloodthirsty beasts. It was the four of them left at the end. The boy from 1 slit the throat of his district partner, and I should have known then how it would be for the rest of my life. We didn't get a winner until the 15th Games, when Beetee electrocuted the Careers. Wiress won ten years later. Our only Victors, and they're old, possibly insane.

There're only four others in my section. We're not even separated into male and female, or distinct ages. We're all just standing in the section labeled "80." There's only one section beyond us, and only one person in it: Old Mr. MacGregor, still a misanthropic grump at the age of 93. He has no wife, no children. Maybe he will get reaped. No one will mourn him, and it would save the life of someone younger, someone who would get time to _live_. But then… does this apply to me as well?

It's the first time I've really considered that I might get reaped. I've been concerned for my children, glad for the first time that my husband is dead, that he doesn't have to go through this again. But me? I haven't been afraid of hearing my name called from that stage in so long that I've forgotten what it's like to feel that icy grip on my heart, my voice catching in my throat as I watch the escort dip her hand into the reaping ball…

I give myself a mental shake. This is no time to get lost in my own head. The District 3 mentor, some tiny, flighty woman who moves like a mechanical bird, is reading out the amended reaping rules. "The Capitol, in all its infinite wisdom," she begins. I wish she could keep the worshipping tone out of her voice, it adds a level of cruelty that makes the whole ordeal somehow worse, "has decreed that this year the Hunger Games tributes will be reaped from the total population of each District. Any tribute who is too young to walk is allowed to be accompanied by a Guardian of either sex. Said Guardian may not leave the Tribute alone under any circumstances. To do so will result in the death of both Guardian and Tribute. If the Tribute dies, his or her Guardian will die also." She finishes reading off her slip of paper—silly woman can't even memorize five sentences—and returns to her jovial tone. She looks genuinely excited to be here, sentencing children—_not just children this time!_—to death. She never had to watch her son die in the first ten minutes of the Games, slain by a thrown axe as he ran to temporary safety. "And now, let's get to the reaping! May the odds be ever in your favor! Shall we draw the name of the lucky girl who will represent District 3 in this most exciting of Games!"

Dimly, I register that she has said "girl" and not "woman." Perhaps she already knows who it will be (I have long suspected the reapings to be rigged), maybe it's someone young and healthy. I can feel all of us elders holding our breath. Hoping it won't be us. Praying it will be someone young, someone strong. Someone who can survive. All sympathy, all family loyalty, has gone out the window, leaving only primal self-preservation. _Let them take anyone, anyone but me._

"Beatrix Hopper." A giant exhale from around the square, around the whole town. Half of District 3's nightmare has ended. Mine has only begun. I start forward. I'm not terribly slow for my age, but I'm certainly no longer spry. I'm not sure how long it will take me to get to the podium. Maybe they will think I'm not here and will draw another name? Maybe someone will volunteer? But no. This is the Hunger Games. This is District 3. They will not draw again. There will be no volunteers.

I think our escort is getting anxious. I can no longer see the screens, but I hear her amplified voice echoing through the square and streets, "Beatrix Hopper? Are you there?" I'm finally at the square. People are moving out of my way. After seeing the first few faces filled with pity and revulsion, I keep my eyes straight ahead, focused on the podium, my escort, and the Victors. I will not show my horror. I will not show that I'm scared. My escort looks a little daunted when she sees who, exactly, is her tribute. But she pastes on a bright smile to greet me, as the Peacekeepers heave me up the steps. We're both hiding our feelings. Fine.

But this day isn't over yet. The escort's hand dives into the second reaping bowl. She pulls out a slip immediately, and reads, "Barry Monen!" There's a slight gasp from the crowd, but I can't figure out why until I see a girl swoop into the section for the under-3s, and pick up a little tow-headed boy. She brings him onto the stage, saying, "This is Barry."

She tries to hand him to someone, but no one will take him. Our escort says, delicately, "You're his guardian?"

The girl looks confused, then worried. "Well, I – I take care of him at the, at the orphanage." Her voice is shaking. I think she may cry. "I don't know if I'm… maybe the director…?" She trails off hopefully, staring into the crowd. No one comes forward. "If I don't… If I'm not… will he go in alone?" The escort nods. The girl gulps, "Then I will. I am."

"What's your name, sweetie?" There's a note of tenderness in the escort's voice. Is the Capitol finally realizing how terrible these games are? Are a babe and a geezer all it took?

"Nox Evermore," the girl whispers, barely loud enough for me to hear, let alone everyone else.

Even while my heart swells with pity for this brave, stupid girl, I am also analyzing her. She wouldn't last long even in a normal set of games. She's a nice person, and they never last. Look at my Benjy. But now she's burdened with a heavy toddler, who can't help her and who she can't leave behind. She's already dead. I may be cold, I may be hard, but these are the people who survive. And I will survive.

"District 3, I give you your tributes, Beatrix Hopper, Barry Monen, and Nox Evermore!"

Only silence greets her words.


	5. D4 REAPINGS: THE YOUNG & THE RESTLESS

**A/N: Wow, the Careers are hard to write, but definitely fun. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter.**

CHAPTER FIVE – THE YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS

_Devin Cod_

It's strange, being back in these cordoned-off sections. Strange, to have to reassure my mother, once again, that there's nothing to worry about, as I wheel her down to the square for the reaping. For the last seven years we've sat together in our house for the reaping and the Games. We've cheered when someone volunteered, mourned when our tributes died, celebrated our Victors. We've been outsiders to these Games. They are around us, but don't affect us. Maybe it's different if you're not in a Career district. Maybe it's always sad if you know your tributes will die, that they never wanted to play. Our tributes choose their fates, and it makes the Games fun.

I was almost a tribute, twice. When I was 13, my name was pulled from that glass ball. I remember my fists clenching, my stomach heaving as I walked up to the podium. But someone volunteered for me, and I was saved. I wasn't sure whether to be happy or sad about that—I'd been training, it's true, but I wasn't sure that, at 13, I was ready. After that year (the tribute who saved me made it all the way to the final four until his former ally, the girl from District 2 and eventual Victor, ripped his throat out with her teeth), I started training in earnest. Ma wasn't very happy about it, but if you want to be respected in District 4, you train to be a Career.

I should have volunteered at 17, the year after Finnick Odair won, but it seems like the same district never wins twice in a row, so I decided to wait another year. And I missed my chance. I was sick at the next year's reaping, barely able to hold it together long enough to make it through the ceremony, let alone sprint to the stage to volunteer. I still don't know if I'm glad I never went in. I still kind of wish for the fame and glory of being crowned Victor instead of merely being second mate on a midsized fishing boat that always catches just enough to fulfill our quota, but never enough for even the smallest bonus. It's a boring, respectable life, but at least it is a life. Even at the peak of my training, I'm not sure I could have beaten the odds, and the other tributes. Ironically enough, I'm stronger now than I was then—fishing is no easy job, it takes strength, agility, stamina. Maybe this year, if I volunteered, I could win.

I won't volunteer, though. Ma's health is getting steadily worse; she can't even wheel herself around now. If she weren't the best net maker in the district, the Peacekeepers would probably have come to take her away by now. In District 4 if you're not working, you're not worth anything.

Our mayor is reading the Treaty of Treason, and it's just as boring now as it was the last time I was eligible for reaping. I guess they skip over this part in the TV broadcast. Not a bad idea, it's quite dull. Now he's drawing the girl's name. I hope it's not my mother, but between taking care of her and manning the boat, I have little spare time and know few women. I just hope we get someone who will represent District 4. I'm not too worried—someone will volunteer, there will be no baby or oldster tributes from District 4.

I didn't hear the name called for the female tribute, but the usual brawl is going on to see who will volunteer. It's larger than usual since it's not restricted to just the 12–18-year-old girls this time. I even see some middle-aged women throwing some punches. It's a pretty good fight—the girls are always up for a good brawl. We don't depend on the fastest or smartest tribute—we want one who'll stand up to pain and give as good as they get. I can feel my palms itching, my body telling me to enter the fray to be District 4's male tribute. It's madness, but it's been a long time since I've had any excitement, any sort of fight.

Huh, it must be over. There's a girl standing on the platform. She can't have won the fight—she's tiny. She can't possibly be older than 10, all spindly legs and witchy black hair. Seriously, this is our tribute? How did this even happen? I groan a little. The male tribute had better be good to make up for this _child_.

Zahara Benet, a tall, glamorous black-skinned woman who's been our escort for as long as I can remember, starts to draw then male tribute's name. There's already a fight breaking out for the volunteers, and I start edging toward it, thinking that I might join in and throw a few punches just for fun.

"Devin Cod!" shouts Zahara. Oh shit, that's me. Do I want this? If I want to remain in District 4, all I have to do is stay quiet, wait for someone to volunteer. But… this is my chance. The one I gave up when I was 13, the one I lost out on at 18. Do I want that again?

No.

"I'm here! I'll take it!" I yell, pounding through the crowd, skimming around the growing brawl. "No volunteers!"

"Great!" Zahara seems enthused to see a real tribute at last. The little girl scowls as she shakes my hand. I grip hers tightly, trying to break it, but she never even cringes. Hmmm.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you your tributes from District 4: Rosemary McHenry and Devin Cod!"

The applause is ear shattering. I better give them the show they want. This was absolutely the right choice.


	6. D5 REAPINGS: PREPARATION & RESIGNATION

**A/N: Here it is, the District 5 reaping! Or rather, a reflection on the reaping, since I went ahead and skipped to the goodbyes.**

**Enjoy!**

CHAPTER SIX – PREPARATION & RESIGNATION

_Remy Tennant_

I thought I was done. I thought I'd made it, survived, outlasted the stupid Games. But here I am, in the Justice Building, waiting for my family to come see me, living out my greatest fear. My uncle is the first one through the door. He looks torn—partly excited, partly sad. I'm not surprised; after all, he won his games 19 years ago—the same year I was born. District 5 has a surprising number of Victors, given that we're not a Career district. I guess we're just smarter than everyone else. Or maybe we just really want to survive. At least one of our tributes usually do well, and we're about due another Victor.

My uncle is holding my hand earnestly and talking quietly. "Look, I'll see you on the train. I've pulled some strings so that I can be your mentor. So don't worry. I'll be looking out for you." He smiles quickly and then leaves. It was a short visit, the whole thing taking no more than two minutes. My uncle always moves fast. Apparently his speed is what saved him in his Games, and my dad says he still sometimes fears that the big cat mutations that stalked his arena are still after him. As Victors go, Uncle Ted is pretty stable. He's not a drunk like old Hadford, or addled like Ginger, our last Victor. So he runs a lot, gets things done quickly. He'll probably be a good mentor for me. Efficient.

My parents come in after Uncle Ted leaves. Mom's been crying, I can tell. She's tried to hide it, but her eyes are red and her cheeks are puffy. I feel my irritation flare up. I _do not_ want to spend my last few minutes with my parents crying. But my mother starts her waterworks back up again, and rather than listen to her blubbering, my mind drifts back…

When President Snow read the card, I couldn't believe it. Last year had been such a huge relief. My very last year, the year that I had the most slips (although thanks to Uncle Ted, I never had to take any tesserae), and I'd made it through. I didn't even know the girl who was reaped, so I couldn't even muster up any sadness to go with the pure relief that it wasn't me. Not even my brother's friend Trevor's reaping could overcome my happiness. I was out. I was free. I was safe.

And then that damn Quarter Quell. As soon as I heard, I knew. Deep down I knew that I was never going to escape going into the Games. That last year's celebration was just the calm before the storm. A lot of Victor's kids go into the arena, and Uncle Ted never had any kids, but he thinks of me as his daughter. He calls me his "good luck charm" since I was born the same day he entered the arena.

So when my name was called from that reaping ball, I felt less surprise and more resignation. I've always known it would come down to this, and I guess Uncle Ted did too. It's not like he ever really trained me, but somehow a lot of our time together was spent doing things that would help my survival in the arena. District 5 is pretty industrial, so I never got any firsthand knowledge of plants or wildlife. But Uncle Ted has me run a lot—I'm a good runner, so it's no hardship—and we've practiced with throwing knives. I've gotten pretty good. I've done a little work with some larger weapons, but knives are definitely my preferred weapon.

And my district partner won't offer much opposition, I think. One of the few fat people I've ever seen in any district, he started bawling as soon as his name was called, and had to be carried up on the stage. Of course, he's so large that it took four Peacekeepers to do it. At first I felt sorry for him, but watching his rolls of fat jiggle as he bawled was all it took to turn my pity into revulsion. He's obviously the son of someone important in town, only they could ever have enough food to support that kind of mass. He's never been without food, never wanted for anything, I'm sure. I expect him to die early. I can only imagine how his fatness and weakness will anger the Careers. I half want to kill him myself just to shut him up.

God, am I turning into such a monster already? I've only been a tribute for half an hour and already I'm coldly contemplating a cold-blooded killing. Maybe I'm more like my uncle than I ever thought. Yes, upon reflection, maybe I have some chance in these games after all.


	7. D6 REAPINGS: INNOCENTS

**A/N: I had a lot of trouble finding the right voice (which is why I chose the narrator that I did – I just couldn't quite bring anyone else to life).**

**This is the first time I've ever tried to write a character like this, and I hope I got him right. I've been reading **_**Room**_** by Emma Donaghue for book club, and that probably inspired me for this chapter.**

**Anyway, I hope guys enjoy this reaping, any feedback is great! **

CHAPTER SEVEN – INNOCENTS

_Jonny "Jon Jon" Bussing _

Arthur and Mama are sad today. Today is the day of the Bad Thing. The Bad Thing used to happen a lot, but it hasn't happened in a long time. I don't know why. Now I have to stand very very still with a lot of people who are the same years as me. I used to do this a lot and then they would call out the name of the LUCKY WINNER but the LUCKY WINNER was never me which made me sad but made Mama and Arthur happy so I was happy too. Now Arthur lives with Sandy who teaches kids to play music and they're happy all the time which make me happy too. I sometimes live with them and sometimes I live with Mama. Mama's a better cook but I have more fun with Arthur and Sandy and they don't laugh at me as much but we all laugh together a lot.

Sometimes Arthur calls me "Big Brother" right before he makes me do something I don't really want to do. Like: "Okay, Big Brother, time to get in the bath!" Or: "All right, Big Bro"—Big Bro is like Big Brother, only it's when it's something I really really don't want to do—"Let's go see Dr. Holmes." Dr. Holmes is old and he pokes at me and I don't like it, but Arthur says I have to see him so I can stay standing up and moving around and not sick in bed cough cough. Today it was, "C'mon, Big Bro, we need to head to the reaping." Only I didn't know what the reaping was, so maybe Arthur was calling me Big Bro because it was something _he_ really really didn't want to do. I never thought of Arthur not wanting to do things when he calls me Big Brother.

The scary lady up on stage is reaching for a LUCKY WINNER. She's really tall, like as tall as a house, and has white hair and white skin and white eyes. She looks kinda scary which is weird because normally black is scary and white is good. But I don't like that I can't see her eyes. She calls out the LUCKY WINNER and a girl goes up there. She's really little. One of the men next to me makes a little noise like he wants to cry. I want to tell him what Arthur tells me, that it's okay to cry, but I don't know if I'm supposed to be talking.

Now there's a girl yelling something and running up to the front. She's older than the little girl. She's pretty. She's heading up the stairs to the stage. Is she the LUCKY WINNER? This is confusing. I never win anything.

The scary white lady is drawing again. The second LUCKY WINNER. The men around me seem nervous. She's calling out a name. It's…

Oooooh! It's my name! I'm a LUCKY WINNER! I start running toward the stage when I hear a yell. Arthur stumbles out of the crowd, yelling my name. "No, Jonny!" Arthur never calls me Jonny. I'm always Jon Jon or Big Brother. I stop, I'm not sure what's going on anymore. I thought I was the LUCKY WINNER. Is that wrong? While I'm stopped, Arthur runs onto the stage, saying, "I volunteer! I'll take his place! Take me instead." And the scary woman agrees! Arthur took my spot! Now he's the LUCKY WINNER, not me! Now I'm mad at him. He stopped me from being a LUCKY WINNER. I'm never going to speak to him again. That'll show him.


	8. D7 REAPINGS: A WELL RESPECTED MAN

**A/N: Hope you enjoy this chapter, we're officially more than halfway through the reapings, thank goodness. **

CHAPTER EIGHT – A WELL-RESPECTED MAN

_Mayor Robert Hardwick_

It's hard not to let my revulsion show as I look over this pathetic excuse for a district. 7! Why did they have to give me District 7? If they wouldn't let me govern my home district—which they _never_ told me was a requirement in becoming Mayor—at least give me 1 or 4! Even District 5, with its intelligent citizens, or 11 with its beautiful orchards and fields. But instead I got 7. Trees, as far as the eye can see. Unshaven lumberjacks and coarse stocky girls. All too weary and downtrodden to put on a good show for the Hunger Games, to get me some glory with the Capitol.

Well, at least we have one good winner. True, Johanna Mason, who sits beside me, was a fearsome competitor and an excellent, if silent, Victor. But that was before I got to this godforsaken district, and none of her glory reflects back to me.

Sometimes I wish that I could have volunteered, back when I was eligible for the Games. I know I would have won. But every year, somehow, I just didn't make it. And I did really try! Don't believe what those other assholes say. I really did trip the year I was 18 and leading the rush for the stage. I did _not_ fall on purpose to avoid having to go into the arena. I trained for six years, why wouldn't I want my shot at glory? There's no way I would have died in those Games. I _know_ it.

But those years are behind me, and now if I ever want to be truly accepted into the Capitol, I'll have to do it the old fashioned way—politics.

Okay, it looks like everyone is assembled in the square now, I need to read the Treaty of Treason. God, I'm glad I don't have to be down in the street with the District 7 peons, even if it means that I have to read this 20 page monstrosity. I catch the eye of Trina, my wife, way back in the 35s' section (she'll just be livid that she has to stand with her _real_ age; she managed to convince most of the town wives that she's 29), and then look for my daughter Minny in the front with the 11s. Minny looks terrified, so I send her a stern look—there's no way the daughter of the mayor will get reaped, and it makes her look weak to be so scared.

I finish up the Treaty and walk back to my place on the stage next to the Victors. They're up for reaping again this year. I wonder if they're worried. Although I guess if they won once, they can probably do it again. That would be fearsome, to be facing down a Victor in the arena. Although some of them aren't in such good shape. Johanna is doing okay, I guess, sort of strong and silent, but one of her fellows, Blight, has brought liquor with him to the reaping, and looks quite drunk.

District 7's escort, a small blonde woman named Tricia (god, even our escort is boring), draws the name of the girl tribute. Next to me, I feel Johanna tense. "Amaranth Blaise!" Johanna doesn't seem to release any tension, and I wonder why. Her name wasn't called; she's not going back into the arena. She should be happy. I'm just glad it wasn't Minny or Trina.

Now it's time for the male tribute. I hope we get a fighter, this Amaranth girl doesn't look like much, just a typical teenage girl. Pretty, but not exactly someone to wager money on.

"Robert Hardwick!" Tricia calls. Without even thinking, I correct her.

"That's _Mayor_ Robert Hardwick."

Wait. What?

The crowd is quiet as I step forward. They all seem to be holding their collective breath. Probably worried about their beloved Mayor's chances in the Games. Well, they probably don't realize that I was really close to being a Career, so they shouldn't worry about that. But even more so, someone needs to let out that breath and volunteer for me! Someone will have to go into the Games in my place anyway, the Capitol will never stand for a district Mayor to be a tribute! Someone will volunteer!

No one does, and Tricia makes me shake hands with the silly little girl like we're actually on the same level, like she'll be any kind of competition. Which she won't, and even if she were, it doesn't matter because there's no way I'm going into the Games.

There's no way. I can't possibly be a tribute.

No way.


	9. D8 REAPINGS: BABES IN ARMS

CHAPTER NINE – BABES IN ARMS

_Joseph Hendrix_

"Shhhh, Tally. Go to sleep, baby girl," I croon, jiggling up and down as I try to persuade my daughter not to make a fuss. I'm standing onstage, next to our escort Bubbles, living out my worst nightmare.

This isn't anything I thought I'd have to worry about for myself ever again. And I thought I'd have eleven more years with Tally before I had to deal with her reapings. When we heard the announcement, my wife Penny and I were dumbstruck. Shamefully, our first worry was for ourselves, and only when we heard her wail did we remember that Tally would also be in danger. For a few days we were lost, but as the rumors began to swirl, we heard over and over that small children—those too young to walk—would be allowed a guardian in the arena. That was when we decided that, should it come to this, I would enter the arena with Tally.

And now it's happened. As soon as I heard Tally's name called, I felt my legs buckle under me, and heard Penny's desperate cries. I was afraid she would volunteer, but she knew that it was more important for her to stay with Justyn, our 3-year-old son. Had Justyn been called, I would have volunteered for him, but only Penny could volunteer for Tally, and I won't let that happen. It's up to us now.

Before I heard the official announcement, I'd formed a plan that would involve me stashing Tally in safe tree or with an ally while I hunted for our meals, but now that plan is gone. I must stay with her at all times, or we both die. My chances are dwindling as I stand here—how can I survive with a baby in the arena? She's the monkey on my back and the albatross around my neck, but I've loved her since the moment I saw her, and I can never willingly let her die.

Bubbles is calling the name "Michael Winchalski," and an older gentleman comes out of the crowd. I've never seen him in the factories, so he must be from the better part of town, one of the ones who manipulates the fabric that the rest of us make. He's tall, solidly built, with graying hair, and he looks intimidating, but when he sees me and Tally, he smiles. He's wearing a full three-piece suit. I recognize the fabric as tweed1025, one made in my own factory. I've never seen it in actual clothes before. It looks distinguished, elegant, intelligent. It fits the man who wears it, and I wonder how he might have gotten it. I thought stuff like that only went to the Capitol.

Bubbles forces Michael to shake Tally's hand—I am an extraneous piece in this game, without even the status of a tribute—but Michael looks me in the eye as he does it. He nods.

Perhaps I have an ally. Perhaps this won't end so badly after all.


	10. D9 REAPINGS: FEAR & LOATHING IN D9

**A/N: Sorry this took a while. I had some real writer's block on Bailey. But I spent the whole time I was writing her wondering what her district partner would be saying. So after I spent about three days trying to get her right, I knocked Alonzo out in about an hour. So a long wait for you guys, but you get a 2-for-1 chapter.**

**Hope you guys enjoy!**

**Also, just a warning, this chapter contains some strong language and is a little bit gross. The best kind of chapter!**

CHAPTER TEN – FEAR AND LOATHING IN DISTRICT NINE

_Bailey Cleaver_

Reaping Day is the worst. The worst. I thought last year was bad, my first year. This year is worse. Maybe it should be better, since the odds actually are in my favor this time. After all, even with tesserae, my name's only in there 5 times. My siblings all get their own tesserae, after all. If anyone's going to be reaped, it'll be them. Anyone can be reaped this year. Anyone. My chances are almost nothing. Nothing. I tell that to myself, over and over, as I stand in the square for the reaping. No chance. No chance. A part of me hopes that my sisters, my mother, my brothers, and my father will all be safe, but mostly I hope that I'll be safe. I have to be safe. I'm only 13, and anyone can be reaped. Anyone. I'll be safe.

I shift from foot to foot as our Mayor reads the Treaty of Treason. I just want to get this over with, to go home, eat dinner—usually the best meal of the year, since everyone's so relieved. This will be Tasha's last reaping, since next year she'll be 19. We always have an extra big dinner on the years someone escapes for good. I bet this year my parents will even break out the beer, since this year the entire family will have escaped. Assuming we escape, of course. But of course we will, of course we will.

The escort gets up on stage and I can't even look at her, her clothes are so bright. She's got a neon checkered leotard that keeps changing from pink to green, with electric blue tights and yellow heels. It's a horrifying clash of color that sticks out like a sore thumb from the gray of District 9.

"Good moooooorning, District 9!" she yells. "I'm your escort, Mimi! Let's get this party started! Ladies first!" She reaches into the reaping ball and draws out a name. "Bailey Cleaver! Let's hear it for Bailey Cleaver everyone!"

I can feel my stomach drop, and I can't help the tears welling around my eyes. I don't want to cry, I don't mean to cry, but tears roll down my cheeks anyway. This was not supposed to happen! I was supposed to be safe! There was no chance.

I have no chance.

No chance.

_Alonzo Alves_

Ugh, why is it so bright? Why do we have to get up so damn early for the damn reaping? And will my freaking sister ever just SHUT UP? Ugh.

I pull my comforter further over my head, trying to block out the ridiculous sunshine. Okay, it's not like it's really bright out or anything. District 9 is really pretty gray most of the time, since the factories throw shadows all over everything. But still. It is way too early and bright and loud for this right now. I am _not_ in the mood.

And okay, yeah, maybe I shouldn't've gone out with Al and Ansel last night. That was probably a stupid mistake. But it was the night before our last reaping, y'know, and that calls for a celebration! And okay, yeah, maybe we should've waited for tonight to celebrate, when we're actually, you know, free. But it was two for one night at the local pub, and how can you pass that up? The pub was full to bursting, too. I bet there's a lot of folks with aching heads this morning, as they were all in there, drowning their fears and sorrows last night. Whatever, today'll be fine, and by tomorrow I will be freaking free from this stupid Game. And that's totally worth the way I feel right now.

With that resolved, I sit up. Which was probably a mistake, as my head immediately begins to throb, and my stomach rises into my throat a little bit. I swallow and close my eyes, determined NOT to let this hangover get the best of me. I just have to get through the next, what, hour and a half? Maybe? And then I can crawl back into bed.

I manage to get some clothes on, I don't even know what, and start moving, very slowly, toward the door. I open the door to a barrage of sunlight that almost makes me vomit. But I hold it in and move carefully down the street. No sudden moves, and I'll probably be okay.

Al and Ansel are already waiting for me at the green gatepost like usual. Al looks about as bad as I feel, but Ansel, who I swear has never had a hangover in his life—lucky bastard—is alarmingly peppy.

"Hey fellows," he crows. Al and I wince. "How 'bout some hair of the dog?" He holds out his flask, an 18th birthday present from his dad. I take a swig and immediately feel worse, almost unable to hold it down. After a minute, though, the warmth spreads through me and I take a deep breath.

"Whew, what the hell is that stuff?" I ask.

"Dunno," Ansel says, "Just some stuff I found in my dad's cabinet. Whatever, gets the job done." That it does.

The three of us make our way to the square for the reaping. We've been friends all our lives, pretty much, since our dads are each the foremen of the biggest factories in town. We look pretty similar, but then so does most of District 9: brown hair, brown eyes, pretty freaking blah if you ask me. I'm the best looking of the three of us, if I do say so myself—my brown hair has a touch of copper, my brown eyes a touch of hazel. Ansel's definitely the worst, as he's kind of universally beige. Serves him right, the chipper bastard.

Looks like we've got a new escort this year. The lady is, I'm just going to say it, freaking enormous. Legs like tree trunks, shoulders that throw shadows for miles. I'm surprised the whole platform doesn't shake when she walks. She's wearing some day-glo outfit that's searing my eyeballs off, and I feel my headache come back. And then she opens her mouth.

"Good mooooooorning, District 9!" She bellows. "I'm your escort, Mimi! Let's get this party started! Ladies first!" Holy shit, does this lady _have_ to yell everything? My head is pounding. I wish she'd shut up.

She calls the female tribute, and a girl who is, I swear, beiger and more boring looking than Ansel climbs on the stage. She's crying, and my stomach roils in disgust.

Or maybe it's nerves. It's time to call a guy's name, and it could be me. My stomach is turning over and over. I really want to go back to sleep. Well, vomit and then go back to sleep.

"Alonzooooo Alves!"

Oh. Shit.

My stomach is really really unhappy now, and my brain is banging around my skull. I start to walk up to the stage, but I have to move pretty slowly.

This is terrible.

I make it up there. Nobody volunteers, I think. It's hard to tell, what with concentrating so hard on keeping last night's drinks down. I should have had some more water before I stumbled to bed. I always forget the water.

The other tribute is holding her little beige hand out to me, but turning toward her turns out to be too much for me.

I can't help it, I double over and let the contents of my stomach—yep, there's that green stuff that really put me over the edge—onto the stage, splattering the feet of the escort and tribute, as well as my own. And maybe a little bit of the people in the front row.

At least my stomach feels better.


	11. D10 REAPINGS: PULLING STRINGS

**A/N: I hope you enjoy Maewyn. It was fun going behind the scenes with her, so you may see her again as the tributes get closer and closer to the Capitol, the arena, and Death.**

**And I guess it's time for another disclaimer: **_**The Hunger Games**_** and all characters associated with such are not mine and instead belong to Suzanne Collins.**

**On on, and may the odds be ever in your favor.**

CHAPTER ELEVEN – PULLING STRINGS

_Maewyn Meriwether, District 10 Escort_

Oh, tut. I do wish people would stop trying to get me to switch districts. I know District 10 isn't exactly glamorous, but I've grown quite fond of it over the years. I've been with these people for over 40 years, you know. Of course, you wouldn't know as I consider myself _very_ well-preserved. This was my second assignment (I was in District 12 for three dismal years… that really was awful), and I asked to keep it even when they wanted to move me. Escorts have to work their way up the ladder, you know. Everyone starts in 12, and then your next assignment is based off how well you do there. Effie Trinket, the girl who did 12 last year, she's in District 5 now! That's practically unheard of! 5's one of the best that's not a Career district.

About 30 years ago, after my first Victor, I was offered District 7. But I turned it down. For some escorts, 10 years without a Victor makes them bitter and hate their district. But I grew to love it here. The way the green hills grow gradually rolling away. All the livestock roaming the pastures, their fur glossy and their low mooing. Apparently District 10 was once known as the "Midwest" and was considered the heart of what was then North America. I understand.

Being an escort is super fun. I get to know about all the behind-the-scenes things that go on in the Hunger Games. I fell in love with the Hunger Games way back at the first Quarter Quell, when I was 10. I mean, I must have watched the Games before then, but this is when they really got me. That was the Quell where the districts had to choose their own tributes. Watching the voting process (there was a running total for each District, so you could see each potential tribute when they got more than 10 votes) was so exciting! And when we finally got to see the tributes, it was fun to try to decipher each district's thought process. The Career districts basically held auditions, with a skills demonstration, and citizens voted for the boy and girl they thought would win. District 3 put in two delinquent kids (the boy almost won—he was frightening and also exciting to watch). For some districts, it seemed almost random—the tributes might as well have just been reaped for all the sense they made. District 10 put in their mayor's daughter. Maybe that's when I fell in love with them. She was so beautiful and strong. Apparently she campaigned to get votes because she wanted to save the poorer kids who usually get chosen. _So_ brave. Everyone was in love with her in pre-Games events.

Of course, she was killed in the bloodbath by the girl from 3. But still, it was a great story, almost as great as last year's star-crossed lovers. I have to admit, I'm kind of jealous of Effie. But, I really do love my district.

Anyway, after that year's Games, all I wanted to do was be an escort—they've always got the latest fashions, they know everything about everything about the Games, and they attend the coolest parties and know all the best people. And so when I turned 18 I applied, interviewed, slept with the interviewer, and got the job! Easy. And totally worth it—I would never, never give up this job.

Okay, sometimes it's not so great. Sometimes a few days before the reaping, you'll get a call from the Gamemakers to come see them. That's never good. It almost always means that they want someone specific to be reaped. Sometimes it's a punishment—someone or someone's parents have been saying something indiscreet, perhaps. I know one of the jobs of the Mayor is to monitor his citizens' behavior. Sometimes the Gamemakers want a Victor's kid in the arena. Sometimes they want a 12-year-old for a more emotional reaping, or to try to goad another tribute into volunteering (apparently volunteers do better in the arena because it gives them something to win for. That's what the Gamemakers say, anyway).

Not all of the reapings are rigged. About every other year I'll get an assignment for one of the tributes. It's never both of them. I guess that would be unfair.

This year was one of those years. I got the call only two hours before I was supposed to get on the train for District 10. My hair was done, but only one eye was made up. I'd hoped I wouldn't get an assignment this year, but I guess you can't always get what you want.

When the Gamemakers call you, you come immediately, no matter what. So even though I had only half my face done, I headed to their offices. Luckily, all I had to do was ride the elevator up ten floors (escorts may share a building with Gamemakers, but we know where we are in the hierarchy).

I knocked on the door to the Head Gamemaker's office, and Tallulah, his secretary, buzzes me in.

"Yes?" she said in a lilting Irishian accent. Accents are the newest craze in the Capitol, but only those who are really high up can afford them at this point. When the datacrunchers down in the City get them, that's when you know it's over. Right now it's still really new and expensive and dangerous (the best kind of craze!): the doctor cuts open your throat and implants a device in your voicebox to give you whichever accent you choose (Tallulah _has_ to be sleeping with one of the Gamemakers There's no way she could afford an accent without help). Irishian is really popular. Alabamian is really big too, it makes you sound like the folks in District 11. Francish is very fancy sounding, that's what President Snow's daughter has. Anyway, I'm hoping after the Quarter Quell, if my tributes do well, I can get a big enough bonus to get a Bostonican accent. I think it'll make me sound tough.

"Crane called for me," I tell Tallulah. I'm important enough to drop the Mr., but only Career escorts get to call the Head Gamemaker Seneca.

"Go on in," she said, shaking out her ivory curls, "He's expecting you."

I opened the giant bronze door and entered the sanctum of the Head Gamemaker.

"Maewyn," he said, just as cool as always, "Excellent. Here are the tributes that are to be reaped."

"Tributes?" I asked. I've always had at least one reaping that really is left up to chance.

"Tributes," Seneca confirmed. "As you know, Maewyn, this is the Quarter Quell, and that demands a show. And every great Game needs its players. The boy is young, his parents have been talking about rebellion, and his brother escaped to—" He didn't finish the thought. Escaped to where? Where is there to escape? "Anyway, reaping the boy should teach his family a lesson." He smiled coldly and moved some papers around.

"The girl though, she's… something. I've got a very special surprise planned for her in the launch room."

He handed two slips of paper to me.

"Memorize these. Don't let anyone know these tributes weren't fairly reaped. Try to discourage volunteers—not that you'll get them in District 10 anyway. If the boy makes it through the bloodbath, try to discourage sponsors. You know the drill. You may leave." There goes my bonus and my accent. Darn.

Obediently, I took the two slips of paper, put them in my pocket and walked out. In a dream, I got myself ready, packed my suitcase, and got on the train. Two tributes! If I've got two, how many of the rest of the reapings are rigged. I know 1, 2, and 4 can't be—the Careers volunteering makes that impossible. How many others?

I sat with the rest of the escorts. None of us are supposed to talk about the orders we may or may not have received. One year a new escort tried to tell us, but after that year's Games we never saw her again. Being an escort is one of the best careers you can have, but a key part of the job is know when to keep quiet.

And now it's the moment of truth. Time for the reaping.

"Hello everybody and happy Hunger Games!" I trill. Silence. Normally I get at least some sort of reaction. The people of District 10 may not really like me all that much, but they've gotten used to me. They know I like them, and they know I'm on their side, that I'll try to get their tributes through. Or at least they think they know that. The two names I've memorized are burning holes in my brain.

"All right, since this is a very _special_ Games this year, let's mix it up a little bit! Gentlemen first!" I make a big production about reaching into the reaping bowl and pull out a slip. I quickly peek at it; Congratulations, Markus Spendwell, you've escaped the Hunger Games.

"Frederick Dyer!"

A little boy of maybe 10 holds back tears as he climbs onto the podium. I've seen a lot of tears over my years as escort, and I've gotten pretty good at knowing which ones are fake and which are real. This is the real deal. This boy is terrified. My heart breaks a little, but even so I follow Crane's instructions and look closely at the crowd, ready to hustle the proceedings along if anyone looks like they want to volunteer. No one does. I let out a sigh. Good. One down, one to go.

"Okay, ladies, your turn!" The key is to be kind, but always enthusiastic. Into the reaping ball again. I glance at the slip to see who was spared. Interesting. I read out the name on the slip, which is the same as the name I was given to memorize:

"Carissa Martin!"

Actually reaping her makes me feel better. It doesn't matter that Crane made me pull strings to get her here; she never stood a chance at all. She comes up to the stage, one of those gawky teenage girls who's not done growing yet. She smiles nervously at me, but doesn't seem like she's going to cry. I don't know what's so special about her, why Seneca Crane wants her in these Games so badly, but I guess we'll find out.


	12. D11 REAPINGS: FIRE WALK WITH ME

**A/N – Here's the second-to-last reaping! Yay. This chapter nearly ended me, as I wrote it three times only to have my computer eat it. Hope you guys enjoy! (I know I didn't describe/mention the female tribute at all, but this chapter seemed to end better before the actual reaping. I've got a recap chapter planned after the D12 reaping, where you'll get a good look at all the tributes, along with names and ages and stuff like that.) **

CHAPTER TWELVE – FIRE WALK WITH ME

_Reed Florian_

My fingers are starting to twitch. I can't wait any longer. It's been 12 days, 7 hours, and 43 minutes since the last one.

I slip out of the house without waking my grandfather, my precious matches in my pocket. Early morning is the best time for this, when it's warm but not so sweltering yet. There's a light breeze, but not strong enough that it's likely that the fire will spread. If I've learned anything, it's that the fire shouldn't spread.

That's what I learned when I was 8. I was playing with the kitchen fire one night after everyone went to bed. I wanted to see what would happen if I put one of the coals on our wooden table, and… well, the house isn't there anymore. Neither are my parents or sisters.

Only my grandfather knows that I started the fire that killed my family. He says not to tell anyone, or they'll take me away. Also I can't light anything in the house. Grandda tries to stop me from starting fires at all, but he's old and it's easy to sneak away from him.

By the time I get to my clearing, it's been 12 days, 8 hours, and 28 minutes since my last fire. My clearing is under a tree just west of Field 9. It's mostly dirt, but there are a lot of twigs and stuff on the ground to build a base. I select a spot near where the clearing ends and the field begins and get to work. First, the twigs. Then a heaping of dead grass and wheat stalks. Light a match… ah… yes…

The first match burns all the way to my fingers while I watch the fire dance, and I shake it out. I only have a few left, so I avert my eyes as I light the second match, not wanting to get entranced again. I hear the sizzle of match hitting grass and look over in time to see the grass ignite.

It's beautiful. So beautiful. Slowly I feed more grass and sticks into the flames. As they grow stronger, I add larger twigs, all the way up to branches. My fire is growing, growing, consuming more and more. But I'm careful. Can't get too big, no.

Still, I see a large branch over in the corner of the clearing. I decide it's safe to go get it, and leave my fire merrily burning, the flames reaching my shoulder. That's when it happens. Although it's been breezy all day, there's never been any real danger from the wind. But I forgot that we're in District 11, and the weather can change in a second.

A gust of wind comes through my clearing, catching my fire. And now, a few wheat stalks are aflame. We haven't had rain for a while and I look up at the sky, hoping that the wind foretold a storm, but the sky is heartlessly blue. More and more of the wheat is on fire. I start to undo my belt buckle, thinking that maybe I could put out the fire the all natural way, but by the time I'm done, I see that this is far too big for my poor bladder to fix. I'm not sure what to do, but I know this is bad. The fire is growing fast, feasting on the parched vegetation.

There's nothing else to do. I run.

By now, everything is on fire. Whole fields are alight. It's so beautiful, but I have to escape it. I remember watching Katniss in last year's Games, dodging fireballs and running from a wall of flames, and I thought, Why would anyone run? But now I know that beauty can still be terrifying. I love the fire, but I can't tame it. I can only flee before it.

I manage to stay ahead of the fire all the way back to the square, but that doesn't save me—it actually brings my doom.

Because the square is full of Peacekeepers.

I try to bluff my way out of it. "Fire!" I yell, hoping my gasping breath will seem like confusion and terror rather than guilt and horror. How could the fire turn on me like this? Even the time with my parents' house, it spared me.

But then my Grandfather steps out from behind the wall of Peacekeepers. He looks sad, his face a mass of wrinkles. "Open your hand, son," he says. I do, and my matches fall onto the ground. Grandda slowly stoops to pick them up, and nods at someone still hidden behind the line of Peacekeepers.

Grandda grips my shoulder and says, "It's out of my hands now, son. I'm so sorry." He turns his back on me and walks through the Peacekeepers, who converge on me.

They drag me into the Justice Building, cuff me to a chair and leave me there. It's cold and uncomfortable without even an ugly unflinching electric light to see by. My hands grow stiff behind me and my legs ache from this morning's sprint. I'm not sure what will happen to me. District 11 is not forgiving of mistakes, and mine must have cost them a lot. Field 9, one of our best producers, is almost certainly ruined, and I doubt they could have stopped that blaze before it jumped to the other fields. Maybe even the orchard. I imagine the fire climbing up one of the trees, and the image calms me.

Finally, after what seems like hours, the door opens and our mayor, Mr. Applehock, walks in. I wonder if he got assigned here for his name. It seems like the sort of thing the Capitol would find funny.

"Look, kid," Applehock says. He sounds resigned. "You caused a lot of problems today. You're in some deep trouble."

I nod. This isn't news to me.

Applehock sighs deeply. "The Peacekeepers wanted to flog you, you know. 15 stripes for each field ruined." I flinch—15 stripes is the max for any punishment, so there had to be more than one field. "I talked them out of that one, said it would be too much on top of Reaping Day. So they wanted to come in here and shoot you." I look toward the door, expecting to see it burst open and Peacekeepers come pouring in.

"Instead I convinced them to give you a choice. Death, or the Hunger Games."

It's not really a choice, of course. It's death either way. But at least in the Games I have a chance.


	13. D12 REAPINGS: SOLID AS A ROCK

**A/N – Here it is! The last reaping chapter! Whew! Hope you guys enjoy, I know I had a great time getting into these characters. I'll have a fun recap chapter up in the next day or two to refresh everyone's memories and fill in some of the gaps, and then we'll start digging a little deeper!**

CHAPTER THIRTEEN – SOLID AS A ROCK

_Quartz Contour_

Today officially marks the end of the year with enough food. Tomorrow we go back to being hungry. And we'll probably stay hungry, because everyone knows that the same district doesn't win two years in a row. I mean, it happens, but pretty much only to the Careers. I scan the crowds that have gathered for the reaping, debating to myself if we have anyone in the whole crowd that can make the kind of impact that Katniss made last year. All around me are poor, underfed kids, mixed in with a few from the town who are larger, healthier, but no better fighters. Last year District 12 had its first Victor in 25 years, and it'll probably be another quarter century before we get another. I pity the boy (or man in this case, I guess) who gets reaped. This year District 12 has even less hope than usual.

I watch Katniss climb the stairs to the podium. She seems worn, tired, old before her time. She won last year, and she's not even safe this year. She fell in love with her district partner, was granted a reprieve—allowed to win with him—only to watch him die within minutes of arriving at his side. It's enough to age anyone, I would think. She's not so bad as Haymitch, our other living Victor, not yet anyway. It'll probably only be a year or two before she, too, turns to the white liquor Haymitch loves so much. She's District 12's biggest celebrity, and she looks miserable.

We have a new escort this year (of course we do—Effie got herself a Victor, and thus a shiny new district, one that she'll be proud to represent), and this one seems unbearably young and unsure of herself. She's pretty enough, with brown skin and a dark bob, but she's very quiet, almost whispering that she's happy to be here, and we should call her Dida.

My attention fades as Mayor Undersee reads the Treaty of Treason. I think at least half the punishment of the Games is having to listen to this stupid thing. I see my brother Copper sitting with his friends in the 15's section, and my sisters Pyrite and Alexandrite huddled with the other girls of less than reaping age. My parents are somewhere behind me, lost in the sea of adults waiting to be reaped. There's a disturbance in the section diagonal from me, the 18-year-old girls, as Lilah Rocas, the ditz of District 12, bobs out of her seat repeatedly.

There's a scuffle as her friends try to hold her down, but she is irrepressible. "But I want to see Katniss!" I hear her say. I roll my eye a little. She saw Katniss every day for 16 years. We went to school together. But now, because she won the Games, suddenly she's someone important. Town kids. What do you expect? I bet Lilah's got a picture of Finnick Odair somewhere in her room, too.

She's not really that bad, though. She's a nice enough girl. So nice, actually, that you kind of want to hit her, try to make her say something awful. And she's smart—you wouldn't always know it, the way she carries on, but she is. She's already running the accounts for her father's general store, calculating how much they need to pay the Capitol, how much they can afford to order from the districts—it's all pretty complicated.

Or at least that's what she told me the one time we ever really talked. It was about a year ago, on the anniversary of my father's death. He died in a mining accident when I was 14, the same accident that took my left eye. He pushed me out of the way, allowed me to make it out, sacrificed himself for me. Now I'm the head of the family, the only one who can put bread on the table, keep my family from starving. It's a lot to take on, and sometimes it gets the better of me.

That's what happened last year. It was my day off from the mines, and after school I was supposed to go to the Rocas General Store to get food. But my pay had gotten docked because I hadn't fully made my quota the week before, and I didn't have enough money to afford anything. I went to the store to try to bargain for some food, but I knew it was hopeless. So I just stood outside and looked in the window. That's where Lilah found me.

I'd always been pretty contemptuous of her, thinking she was just another flighty dumb girl. But we had a really good talk, and she helped me find something to take to my family. The next day, Katniss won the 74th Hunger Games, and my family hasn't been hungry since. Nor have I thought the same way about Lilah. I don't _like_ her or anything, but I can view things like today's antics with a little more humor. She may be a little silly and naïve, but she's a good person.

Which is why it's so awful when our new escort calls Lilah's sister's name. Within seconds of hearing it, Lilah, who was already half out of her chair, yells, "I volunteer!" and runs to the stage. It's like watching last year all over again. How coincidental.

I have to give Lilah credit, because she seems utterly composed when Dida asks for her name. "Lilah Rocas," she says breathlessly.

"How wonderful!" Dida replies, reaching into the second reaping ball. "Let's see which lucky young man will be joining you, shall we?" She fishes out a slip and reads it. "Quartz Contour! Come on down!"

Oh, crap.

I make my way up to the stage, the crowd parting in front of me. I'm trying to think of a way out this, but nothing's coming to me. Someone might volunteer, but it's unlikely, and it would only be transferring my death sentence onto them. I want to live, but not at the expense of an innocent. I see my brother Copper taking a breath to volunteer and shake my head at him. After all, I've been working in the mines for five years now. I'm actually pretty strong, and Katniss's winnings have helped keep me fed and healthy for once. If anyone in the district has a chance, maybe it could actually be me.

Districts don't usually win twice in a row, but it could happen. It could be me. I turn and smile at Lilah, shake her hand. I don't want to kill her. I hope I don't have to. I wonder if she's thinking the same thing.

Evidently not.

"Isn't this cool?" she whispers at me, clasping my hand in hers. "I'm _right next to Katniss!_"


	14. INTERLUDE

**A/N: As promised, here's a quick recap of the reapings which should be both entertaining and edifying! I promise we'll get into their heads more as they get into the Capitol and closer to the Games, but now that we've officially, if sometimes only superficially, met all of our tributes, tell me who you're rooting for and against! Who are you interested in knowing more about? Who do you think will win, and who will be only another body in the Bloodbath?**

CHAPTER FOURTEEN – INTERLUDE

_In the Capitol, again…_

Finally, _finally_, it's time for the reapings recap. School ended in time for me to see the District 11 and 12 reapings live, but I'm a purist. I want to see them in order. You have to experience these things correctly, otherwise it's no fun. My best friend Alisa Summers is over, we're going to actual write everything down and track the tributes this year. This is the first year my mom is letting me sponsor anyone, so I want to make sure I have all the information I need. I mean, some people just sponsor the prettiest girl, or the guy they want to date, but if I'm going to sponsor anyone, I want it to be the winner. So I'm going to really pay attention this year to what the announcers are saying, because they know what to look for. Although, you can't totally trust them. Last year they'd pegged the pair from 2 and the girl from 1 as the tributes to watch, only putting Katniss as a dark horse contender at best, even after her training score. They never even talked about Peeta until the rule change, and then they did a full recap on him just in time to watch Katniss get to him and have him die of blood poisoning (_such _a bummer ending to a great Games storyline). So I'm also relying on my feminine instinct. I picked Katniss right off the bat, which must prove something.

"Pandora?" Alisa turns to me. "Are you ready?" Oooooh, it's starting. Here's the anthem. I get my notebook ready.

District 1 goes really fast. The escort doesn't even draw names because Cashmere and Gloss volunteer before she gets a chance. I'm pretty sure that's against the rules, but since they're Victors, I guess they can do what they want. Victors back in the arena, how exciting! The announcers are talking about which Games each won. I was really little when those were on TV, so it's good for me to try to learn more. I make a note to try to find video or broadcast so I can watch them myself. Apparently Cashmere's Games were over really quickly—she slit the throats of the other Careers while they slept on only the third day. After that she had no real competition, and only two days later she beheaded the boy from 8 to win. On the other hand, Gloss's Games lasted four whole months, possibly the longest on record. After what happened the year before, with Cashmere, no one trusted Gloss, or each other, and there was no Career alliance. Consequently, the bloodbath was surprisingly bloodless, with no one trying to hold the Cornucopia, and most of the tributes managed to make off with some kind of supplies. The whole Games were just lone tributes hunting each other down and killing each other one by one. It took forever, especially since it turned out that the girl from 10 was really good at hiding. The last showdown took a week all by itself as Gloss tried to find her. It was apparently terribly disappointing over all, and mentors and escorts are now supposed to encourage tributes to make alliances. Betrayals are so much more interesting than tracking.

There's one final shot of the two gorgeous blondes standing together with their hands clasped over their heads as the camera cuts to District 2. Here, the girl, a pretty enough brunette, I suppose, is reaped, but takes no volunteers. I am unsure of her, as she seems unsure of herself, but her district partner is certainly enthusiastic enough for the two of them. Alisa cries out and claps her hands when the boy punches a would-be volunteer in the face before leaping up on stage. He is certainly someone to look out for.

District 3. Booooooring. I think the announcers agree, they're talking about how long it's been since District 3's had a winner—50 years, apparently, the first Quarter Quell. And it's been 15 years since they had a tribute in the Top 8. I'm already writing District 3 off, even before I see that their tributes are an old lady and a little boy with his teenage guardian. I feel a little sad for them, having no chance. Maybe the grandma will sacrifice herself for the little boy. That would be a good story; I should be a Gamemaker.

At least District 4 is always exciting! I love the Career districts, even if it is a little predictable when they win. The escort is drawing a name for the girl, but the district girls—and women—are already fighting to volunteer. The fight is getting pretty nasty (the camera gets a close up as a middle-aged woman tears out a big chunk of hair from a teenager's skull), when suddenly the camera switches over to the edge of the fight. I can't figure out why until I see a small girl who couldn't possibly qualify for the reaping in a normal year scurrying around the huddle of fighting women. She's small enough that no one even notices her until she's already up to the stage—without a mark on her—piping up that she volunteers. The escort—Sahara something? I should probably learn their names if I ever want to be one—looks surprised, but goes ahead with it. I guess she doesn't have a choice. The girl's obviously smart enough to avoid the fight, but can anyone so young stand a chance in the arena? The announcers don't think so, but give her points for enthusiasm.

In comparison, the male tribute is immensely satisfying. He's old—he must be over 20!—but very handsome, with skin well tanned from working on the sea and light, curly hair. He's also very, very fit. I can see his muscles even through his shirt. Yum. He gets reaped, true, but refuses any volunteers and looks excited to be there. This is someone I could sponsor. The announcers agree, easily ranking him a contender along with the Victors from 1 and the boy from 2.

District 5 is a strange one. They probably have the most Victors of any non-Career district. It's weird because their industry is so boring I can never even remember what they do. Just that it's something that involves a lot of factories and things. But I guess they're all super smart? That's what the commentators think, they're talking about how District 5 Victors are the most likely to win by outsmarting the other tributes. Apparently they have the lowest kill rate out of any pool of District Victors (whose job is it to compile these numbers?), but of course they can and will kill. You can't be a Victor and not kill someone. Okay, so the girl called is apparently the niece of a Victor. She looks strong and fit. Contender, definitely.

Ooooh, but the boy tribute… this is gross. He's fat. Not like fat but FAT fat. Ugh, how did he let himself get like that? I mean sure, there are some people who find that attractive. My mom thinks I don't know about those kind of places—Fat Fancy, The Chubby Chase, Plump 'n' Perfect—but kids at school always talk about them. I've never understood it. Why get fat when you can drink all the Pink you want and then never worry about calories? Do they not have that in the Districts? But aren't the district kids supposed to be working? Oh, ugh, now he's bawling on the stage. Facedown, pounding his fists on the floor, this is just sad. The commentators are baffled, too. "Maybe it's a ploy," one of them suggests. "You know, pretend to be weak? To throw off the other tributes?"

The other announcer snickers. "Honey, he ain't pretending _nothing_. Even if he is, you can't fake that kind of mass." He guffaws and his companion tentatively laughs as well. I make a little black mark next to Harold from District 5.

District 6 begins the boring Districts. Districts 6–11 (it used to be 6–12, but last year totally changed _everything_) hardly ever have winners, and when they do it's usually a fluke. District 11 sometimes wins when there's no food in the arena and everyone starves. A few years ago there was no warmth or weapons, and everyone just shivered and beat each other with clubs. A boy from 8 won that year. Even when they have good tributes—Thresh from 11 last year was a huge gorgeous dark hulk of a boy—it's never enough. I don't think District 6 will break their losing streak any time soon. A 6-year-old girl is reaped, and a 15-year-old girl volunteers for her (although there's apparently no relation or connection between the two at all—interesting). The male tribute's reaping is strange. Apparently the reaped tribute was a retard whose brother volunteered for him. The retard is standing there screaming "I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!" complete with spit and snot, even while his brother is shaking the girl tribute's hand. It's awkward. And the brother doesn't even look like the surviving type—all nerdy and gangly and he even wears glasses. I don't have high hopes for these two.

District 7 is another one that's usually really boring, and my opinion doesn't change when a red-haired 14-year-old is reaped. She's doing the classic "pretending not to be scared" bit that most tributes do. Those tributes usually die in the bloodbath. However, after her things get interesting again as District 7's _mayor_ gets reaped. I've heard of this guy. Apparently he was originally from District 2, and is known for being a bit brutal and Peacekeeper-happy. He seems shocked to be reaped, and probably expects the Capitol to interfere. But the commentator sums it up for the audience: "Mayors are easy to come by. And we've never gotten to see what a mayor can do in the arena."

District 8 is actually kind of sad: a little baby is reaped, with her father as her guardian. An old guy is also reaped, but he looks pretty strong. The escort makes him shake hands with the little baby, which is maybe supposed to be funny but somehow isn't. That poor little baby. I hope she makes it. I consider signing up to sponsor her, but it seems like a waste of money. Maybe just a little gift. I think of my sister, Anesidora, when she was born. I wouldn't want Anesidora to die, would I? God, the Games aren't supposed to make me sad! They're supposed to be fun! Stupid Gamemakers, changing up the rules and putting little babies in the arena.

District 9 doesn't make me feel any better, either. The girl is a frail, bland little thing who cries on the stage, and the boy is good-looking but too pale, and then, instead of shaking the crying girl's hand, he vomits all over the stage. Which also could have been funny, but right after District 8, and with that pathetic little mouse of a girl next to him, it's just not. Hey tributes, you should be _impressing_ me, not _depressing_ me! Hey, that's actually kind of clever.

Cheered up by my own wit, I go get a glass of Fizzy while the commercials run before District 10's reapings. I'm in a much better mood for 10, I hope they don't let me down.

Thank god, District 10 _is_ better. Not completely—the boy is a tiny thing who immediately bursts into tears on hearing his name—but the girl shows some real promise. Plus she's within normal reaping age, which makes me feel oddly better. It's not like District 10 is fascinating or really any sort of contender at all, but at least they don't make me want to cry.

Oooh, District 11, though. What a nice change of pace after the last few districts. They're not boring, and they don't make me sad. The other districts should take lessons from 11, seriously. First off, there isn't even a reaping for the male tributes. Instead, a young, good-looking guy is brought onto the platform in chains by a bunch of Peacekeepers. A Peacekeeper pushes the boy forward and very mechanically he says, "I am Reed Florian, and I volunteer for the Hunger Games." He looks mad. Like angry, not insane. Although he could be insane—he must have done something really bad to be in chains like that. Some districts like to punish their criminals by sending them into the Games. It's sort of silly to me, because the Games are supposed to be about glory, and volunteers are supposed to be the best of the best for your district. But it's not actually written anywhere, so I guess the districts can do what they want. And the Games where there's a criminal tribute are always really exciting, so there's that.

The girl's also pretty interesting. Ivy Juneberry was reaped. She's 8, and her sister Jasmine volunteered for her. I do love it when girls volunteer for their sisters. It's somehow sweeter than when the boys volunteer for their brothers. Plus, not only do you have the volunteer angle, but Jasmine's sister is Violet Juneberry, who won four years ago! It wasn't exactly the most exciting set of games—Violet won by living in the trees and avoiding everyone, and then using a slingshot to take out the last tribute—but a Victor's still a Victor, and seeing one's sibling go in is always exciting!

And now for District 12, the one we've all been waiting for since the Career districts finished their reapings. First we get a close up of Katniss climbing onto the stage. She's so beautiful—she barely had to be remade at all after her Games. Braids are all the rage in the Capitol this year, as are arrows. I've got a little silver arrow necklace on right now. Alisa has earrings _and_ a bracelet. Katniss is just so cool, I really want to meet her, but my dad's not important enough. It's just not fair.

Anyway, the first person called is a little girl, but her sister rushes forward to volunteer in her place. Wow, just like last year. Except when she gets up to the stage, it's obvious she's no Katniss. Oh, she's pretty enough, with striking red hair and green eyes, but she seems a little…silly. Last year, Katniss was so obviously passionate and strong, and this girl has none of that.

The boy, though. He's got an eye patch, which makes him look pretty dashing and roguish. He's handsome too. He looks like he could maybe be the girl tribute's brother, they have the same hair, but he seems as serious as the girl is flighty. He could definitely be a contender, and when he shakes the girl's hand, she says something that makes him smile, just for an instant, and oooooooh… That smile could make you fall in love with him. But I can't be going around sponsoring people just because they make my heart flutter. No, no, I'm sponsoring a winner! But this guy could definitely win. Probably.

Finally the Panem anthem starts to play and the screen goes dark. I stretch and look at Alisa. "What do you think?" I ask. "Right now, my money's on the Victor tributes from 1, maybe the girl from 5 or the boy from 11. Or 12. You know, maybe."

"Really?" Alisa gives me a weird look. "The criminal? The miner? As if. I'm with you about the pair from 1, but I'm definitely thinking the boys from 2 or 4. Maybe the guy from 8 or the Mayor." Alisa is so predictable—straight for the Careers and the older men. She has _such_ a thing for authority figures. That's why she keeps sleeping with our teachers. Plus that way she doesn't fail out of school and have to get a job or something.

"Oh well," I sigh. "We don't really need to pick anyone yet. We should wait until after the training scores, at least. And think how much we learned at the interviews last year! We've still got time."

Still, I look down at the list in my lap and a shiver goes through me because I know that the name of our next Victor—of a Quarter Quell, no less!—is already written on this paper.

_District 1_  
Cashmere Tiberius, 26  
Gloss Tiberius, 24

_District 2_  
Abby Smith, 16  
Julius Spillers, 17

_District 3_  
Beatrix Hopper, 87  
Barry Monen, 2 / Nox Evermore, 16 (Guardian)

_District 4  
_Rosemary McHenry, 8  
Devin Cod, 26

_District 5  
_Remy Tennant, 19  
Harold Landers, 15

_District 6  
_Caela Braden, 19  
Arthur Bussing, 20

_District 7  
_Amaranth Blaise, 14  
Mayor Robert Hardwick, 38

_District 8  
_Talia "Tally" Hendrix, 1 / Joseph Hendrix, 29 (Guardian)_  
_Michael Winchalski, 52

_District 9  
_Bailey Cleaver, 13_  
_Alonzo Alves, 18

_District 10  
_Carissa Martin, 15  
Frederick "Fred" Dyer, 10

_District 11  
_Jasmine Juneberry, 15  
Reed Florian, 25

_District 12  
_Lilah Rocas, 18  
Quartz Contour, 17

**Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!**


	15. THIS TRAIN IS BOUND FOR GLORY

**A/N: Here are the train rides. Some of them are pretty dark, but a few are funny as well. It's sort of a random assortment of viewpoints, although they're all female tributes—for whatever reason, these are the tributes who I felt had something to say on the train. This should fill in a little bit of what's going on with some of the tributes, and give you some hint of what they're planning. Next up will be some combination of Remake Center/Chariot Rides. Hope you guys are enjoying!**

CHAPTER FIFTEEN – THIS TRAIN IS BOUND FOR GLORY

_Cashmere Tiberius, 26, D1_

I'm not going to lie—I'm a little worried about Gloss. He's not taking this seriously. He's sitting by the window in our usual District 1 car, laughing and talking with our so-called mentors. He seems to have forgotten that this time he's the tribute. I know he's already won once. I know he may be planning not to make it back. But he should at least _try_. Why volunteer if you're not going to try?

Plus, I know my brother. Sometimes I think I know my brother better than I know myself. When he gets into that arena, he'll want to survive. When you get into that arena, you do things you never thought you'd do, just to survive…

_It was a dark, starless night. The Gamemakers blocked out the sky with clouds. We'd been in the arena for two days, and there hadn't been even a hint of sun, let alone the moon or stars. I missed the stars the most. Back home, I would sometimes sneak out my window to sit on the roof and watch the stars. Even in the Capitol, I would head up to the roof whenever possible. If I slept, it was there. But I didn't sleep much; I've never slept much. My fellow Careers used that as an excuse to put me on watch all night. It was a mistake they'd never live to regret. These Games were going quickly—my fellow Careers and I had dispatched 11 tributes, nearly half the field, during the bloodbath alone—but not quickly enough for me. I'd been debating this move since the first night, but it was the lack of stars that really made my decision for me. It was time to go home, to go back to the stars. We were down to the Top 8, and eliminating five Careers could probably get me home by the end of the next day. I took out my knife and, quietly, noiselessly, knelt next to my district partner Silk, the one who'd been ogling me since I volunteered, and slit his throat. It was the beginning of the end of the 66__th__ Hunger Games. It was also the beginning of the end of thinking of myself as human. Killing your enemies in battle is one thing. Taking out your allies as they sleep is something else. Easier. But also the hardest thing._

Yes, I know what I am capable of.Before I went into the Games, I thought that it would be hard for me to kill, but I also thought that I would do it honorably. Neither was true. It was spectacularly easy to run my sword through the small girl from 3, my first kill, while she was running away. I laughed with my fellow Careers while we surrounded the boy from 5 and kicked him to death. I also threw up afterwards. I still see Silk, Calypso, Geoffrey, Dionne, and Albert, in my dreams. Silk and Calypso were killing machines. Even their smiles were terrifying. I saw Geoffrey vomiting after the bloodbath, something I did myself later that night, the first time I tried to get some sleep and saw my tributes circling around me, asking me why I killed them.Dionne and Albert were insular, always making inside jokes about District 4 and never sharing them with us. I liked them all. I hated them all. And none of it mattered after I made the decision to see the stars again. I became more ruthless than Silk, faster than Calypso. I took Albert's spear and threw it over and over, killing tribute after tribute. I wanted to go home, so I went home.

But Gloss? He's always been different. Stone hard on the outside, downy soft in the middle. His games were worse than mine. Thanks to my alliance-killing (ha) strategy the year before, no one trusted each other the next year. It is still the only Game in recorded history without a single alliance. In some ways, it made for great TV—the tributes were killing each other on sight. No fruitless sacrifices, no star-crossed lovers, no tragic friendships cut short. Just death. But there was also a lot more hiding and running and starving, since no one could pool their resources. And at least two tributes went crazy from lack of sleep, with no one to keep watch for them. Gloss did the best he could, of course, but the Gamemakers were lax about trying to herd the tributes together—or maybe they were curious. Either way, Gloss spent a week trying to find the last tribute, who was hiding inside a hollow tree. That part was boring for the Capitol, and agonizing for me, who was both his sister and his mentor. I could send him sponsor gifts, but I couldn't tell him that he'd walked _right past_ the girl for the third time.

This year we are our own mentors. True, Glamour and Gregor (I call them Clamor and Clangor, since they never ever ever shut up) will be sending us sponsor gifts, but we're devising our own strategy. We just need to decide what it will be.

Why are we here? Why did we volunteer again? Why are we going back into the arena, into certain death for one or both of us?

I don't know. We're Careers. We're Victors. We're tributes, again. We just are.

_Caela Bradon, 19, D6_

What the hell was I thinking? I was out. I was safe. And then I volunteered? Seriously. I'm sure that girl had family that would have saved her. They were probably just working up their nerve. If I'd kept quiet, I'm _sure_ she wouldn't have been in the Games. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

But it happened so fast. Our escort called out the name—and by now I don't even remember what it was! How messed up is that?—and that little girl started walking up to the stage, and no one was moving, no one was saying a word, no one was going to help her, and I just couldn't stand it! I can't tell you what I was thinking, I wasn't thinking! I just… did.

And now here I am. Stuck. A volunteer. A tribute. A sacrifice.

The sound of someone clearing their throat brings me out of my reverie.

"Ah, so, what next?" the tall, gangly man sitting across from me asks. He's wearing glasses, which is pretty unusual. "I think, usually, we would discuss strategies with our mentors, but I'm not sure our mentors will be, ah, much use in our case." He clears his throat again and points to the two people sitting on the other side of the train. I hadn't noticed them before, but it looks like the man is right. Those are two of District 6's Victors, all right, the only two left alive, and they won't be good for much. The female is looking out the window and whispering to herself, tracing designs with her fingers. The male is rocking back and forth, humming (not quietly, either), and drooling a bit.

My spirits drop further. No wonder these two are never seen on reaping day. No wonder District 6 hasn't had a Victor, or even a Top 8 contender, in decades, if this is who we have to help us. I can look forward to no strategy meetings, no pep talks, and, most importantly, no sponsor gifts in the arena. I am as good as dead now.

I look at the man beside me, and maybe my defeat shows in my eyes, because he rests his hand on my shoulder and says, "Don't worry. I may only be a fellow tribute, but no one's ever called me stupid, and maybe together we can find a way out of this. I'm Arthur Bussing," he adds by way of introduction.

"Caela Braden," I say, offering my hand.

"Okay Caela, let's talk strategy," he says, pulling a notebook and pen out of his pocket.

Maybe this will be okay after all.

_Amaranth Blaise, 14, D7_

I didn't like the Mayor when he was just controlling the Peacekeepers and ordering public whippings. Now that he's in the same train car as me, going on and on to our mentor about what a great tribute he is, and how he's going to decimate the other tributes—it's terrifying.

I try to comfort myself by thinking back to some of the happy times at home—sitting in the trees at lunch with Petunia and Willson, dropping nuts and berries onto unsuspecting passersby below, stifling our laughter when they try to figure out where the missiles were coming from. Those were happier times—when we were unfettered by anything but school. Ineligible for reaping, too small to work in the lumber yards… But then we got our new mayor, and everything got turned upside down. All children forced to work after school, Peacekeepers patrolling the borders of the forest in off hours, workers' pockets searched for anything edible picked up in the forest. The day _he_ showed up was the last happy day I had.

And now he's sitting next to me on the train, plotting my death. But he doesn't know that I'm plotting his death, too.

_Bailey Cleaver, 13, D9_

Alonzo staggers out of the bathroom, where he's been since we got on the train, giving me a shaky grin. "I'm never drinking again," he tells me seriously. Then he spots the carafe of wine on our escort's table, reverses directions, and says, "But a little hair of the dog might help," and pours himself a glass.

I don't think I'll be able to count on my district partner to help me in the arena.

Our mentor, a large, burly man with a full beard, grabs a glass and toasts Alonzo with it. "Now here's a tribute I can behind! Cheers to you, boy! Drink it down, down, down!" They both gulp their wine, the glass not leaving their lips until it's empty.

I'm guessing my mentor won't be much help, either.

_Jasmine Juneberry, 15, D11_

"Violet," I say coaxingly, "Come on now, Violet, you can't be mad at me. I didn't have a choice!"

Violet continues to stare at me, not moving an inch. My sister is stubborn. It's how she won her Games—she simply kept hiding and refused to die. She's also never been the same since.

She sits before me now, more beautiful as a Victor than she ever was in the district, but also so much less herself than before. She doesn't speak much, and she screams in her sleep. I know our life is supposed to be so much better now that we live in Victor's Village, but sometimes I wish we could be back in our hut near the fields.

"Violet, if it wasn't me, it would have been Ivy! She never would have made it! You know that, she's only 8!" Violet still refuses to look at me. It's not right, that even here and now, when I'm facing my own death in the arena, that I have to take care of my sister. My older, stronger, Victor sister.

Suddenly, Violet bursts into tears. "How can I?" she says, sobbing. "How can I watch you in there? How can I save you? I can't save you. I should have saved you."

Now I'm confused. I rub Violet's back soothingly as she cries. "There there," I say. "You can save me. We can work out a strategy, you can send me gifts. You won, why can't I?" But my words seem to have no effect. She simply sobs harder and harder.

"I should have saved you. I should have saved you." She just keeps repeating herself. Finally she looks up and yells almost in my face.

"I SHOULD HAVE VOLUNTEERED FOR YOU!"

_Lilah Rocas, 18, D12_

"Okay, guys!" I say once my team has assembled in the train car. "What's our strategy going to be?"

Nobody answers. Quartz simply stares at me, which is weird because he should be trying to keep my alive—and himself as well of course—as much as anyone. Haymitch takes a deep drag out of his bottle and appears to go to sleep. Katniss looks at me dully. I don't think she's brushed her hair in a few weeks, and her skin is looking ashy. I should have brought one of those pumice stones my dad sells, and some lotion. We could have bonded while I helped her skin look better. Oh well, no sense crying over lost opportunities.

Only our escort Dida seems interested in forming a plan with me. "Do you have any ideas, Lilah? This is my first Games, so obviously I want to have a Victor on my first time out!"

"Well, not exactly," I say, "But I was _thinking_… maybe we could try to the star-crossed lovers thing again?" I send a sideways glance at Quartz who seems a tad alarmed. Haymitch continues to sleep—or feign sleep—and Katniss looks dully at me.

"No," she says. Then she turns to the window.

No? That's it? Dida sees me looking confused and pats my hand. "I think Katniss is right, dear. After last year, another love story might seem a little… contrived. And the audience won't like to think they're being manipulated. It could turn them against you."

Haymitch starts to laugh behind. It's not a pleasant sound, like a rock run over a grate. I knew he wasn't really asleep. "Yes, the Capitol doesn't mind _being_ manipulated, they just don't want to notice it. Idiots." He continues to chortle to himself.

Obviously those three will be useless to me. I'll have to come up with my own strategy.

I turn back to Dida, clearly the only reasonable, sane person in the train. I turn to her to ask the question I really want to know:

"So when do I get to meet Finnick?"


	16. CIRCUS MAXIMUS

**A/N: Whew. I kind of thought I would never finish this chapter. But I did! It's definitely not my favorite, but I think it does its job. Let me know what you think! Next up, TRAINING!**

CHAPTER SIXTEEEN – CIRCUS MAXIMUS

_Abby Smith, 16, D2_

My prep team scurries around me, avoiding looking at me even as they strip me naked, and apparently try to remove every hair on my body—taking my skin with it if need be. Finally, I can't take it anymore.

"Ow!" I yell after a particularly large strip is ripped off. My prep team cringes, the one with the orange eyes going so far as to jump back.

"Sorry miss, sorry sorry!" Olivia, the apparent leader, says to me. It's like they expect me to lash out at them at any moment. I mean, I kind of understand. Most if the District 2 girls are terrors—that's why we have such a high number of Victors. Certainly my District partner fits the role of a District 2 male: strong like bull, dumb like ox, hitch to plow when horse dies. But the role of the District 2 girl? Good with knives, wants to inflict pain? That's not me. That's exactly why I dropped out of the training academy after two years.

What they do there—it's sadistic. You're rewarded for inflicting pain on the other students, punished for trying to help a fellow "competitor." I couldn't take it. Not the physical stuff—no, I'm pretty capable with knives, just like every other District 2 girl—it was the mental and emotional toll training took on me that I couldn't handle. I mean, the thing with the knives alone—the trainers seem to think that knives are the only weapon girls should excel at—like they can't handle anything bigger. It's insulting. And, moreover, I just couldn't take the mental abuse. I want to help people. I don't want to pick on those younger and weaker than I. …So what am I doing in the Hunger Games?

"_I can't do it," I whisper to the only person in this whole godforsaken school I feel comfortable around, my mentor Isaiah. "I can't take this anymore. I want out." These are dangerous words around here. To be picked for training is a real honor, and to leave the school almost always implies weakness, one thing you don't want to show in District 2. I look up at Isaiah pleadingly through my one good eye, the right having been blackened in the morning brawl._

_My arm's already been broken twice in the two years I've been here, and this is my fourth black eye. I was given 300 crunches and 90 pull ups for crying when my eye was blacked, and a six mile run for helping a younger boy out of the brawl. It's too much._

_Isaiah looks down at me. "Oh, Abby, you show so much promise already. Think what you can be at the end of this, at 16—you could be a tribute. A Victor!" I shake my head. It's not worth it. Even the marble quarries, where I'll surely end up after I've passed reaping age, would be better than here, right now._

"_Okay, Abby. I'll get you out of this. It won't be easy, and you'll owe me." My eyes meet his, afraid again—I know what it is that some people trade for favors here, and at 12 I don't consider myself ready for that. But as if he's reading my mind, Isaiah shakes his head. "Not that, sweetling, you're not my type. No, you'll never be a real District 2 tribute, but you have to promise me that if you ever get reaped, you'll take no volunteers and you'll go into the arena."_

_I promised him, and a week later I was pulled from the program. So when I was reaped, I looked out into the crowd, found Isaac's approving smile, and waved off all the volunteers. I keep my promises. _

Finally, the prep team has finished and my stylist is ushered in. A prim man with thin lips and overly curled bronze hair, he circles me as I stand naked in the middle of the room. "Hmmmmm," he says in a clipped, lilting accent that's different from the other Capitol voices I've heard. "Not bad, not bad at all. Sit."

Obediently, I sit, which causes my stylist's eyebrows to raise. "I'm Abby," I offer softly.

"G. Oscar," he replies. He turns to the prep team. "Not like the usual, is she?" They shake their heads.

"Can't do fierce this year, can we? Going to have to throw the book out, aren't we? What am I going to do with you? What can I do with a little sparrow instead of an eagle?" He sounds disgusted.

Throwing his makeup tools around, he starts muttering to himself, repeating the same phrase over and over that Isaiah once said to me years ago.

"You're not a _real_ District 2 tribute."

_Remy Tennant, 19, D5_

My uncle told me what to expect for the chariot rides—the painful preparation, the ridiculous costumes, the cheering crowds. But he never told me what it would actually be _like._

I thought the prep time would be the worst—and it was pretty bad, between the inconsequential nattering of my prep team and the ridiculously stupid "slutty factory worker" outfit my stylist put me in (basically just a bra and shorts, a helmet, and, are you ready for this? A welding torch. I guess because "fire" is a requirement after last year's theatrics)—but really I think this chariot is the worst. For one thing, I have this fat tub of goo next to me, stuffed like a sausage into a fat factory outfit. I will never get any sponsors with such a worthless excuse for a district partner. For another, I'm not sure if I've ever realized how _terrifying_ horses are. They're huge! I'm supposed to be riding behind this thing?

On the other hand, this is my first glimpse of the other tributes outside of the brief reaping footage. District 1, of course, look cool and collected, ready to soak up the admiration of the Capitol. Their stylists have dressed them all in gold, in the look of ancient gladiators (which we learned in school were one of the inspirations for the Games themselves). Cashmere and Gloss look impossibly glamorous, sending golden shafts shooting off wherever the light hits them.

Uncle Ted and I discussed trying to join the Career alliance, but ultimately rejected the idea. There's no guarantee that the Careers would even let me join them, and by trying to get in with them, I would be revealing myself as a contender. Even if I were a Career, it would be too dangerous. The first Career to fall would inevitably be the outsider. The non-Career Career.

The next question, of course, is whether I want to be in any alliance at all, or on my own. If I'm going to make an alliance, I need to choose carefully, and the chariot rides are the perfect time to start scoping out my competition/allies.

I think I'm going to have to discount all the girls immediately. Even in the Career alliance, only Cashmere seems even slightly capable. The girl from 2 hardly looks like a Career, and her stylist's choice to put her in a samurai outfit (did the stylists all get together this year? Lots of ancient warriors in the Chariots this year) only accentuates how poorly she fits into a Career alliance. Her partner, on the other hand, looks right at home, shaking a fake sword at the horse in front of him.

District 4 is odd, as well. The boy looks like a lesser Finnick—his hair less bronze, his physique less perfect, but he looks quite good in nothing but a net knotted strategically at his waist. He holds a trident—not being subtle about this being Finnick's district, are they? The girl, on the other hand… a serious misstep there. Her stylists had obviously assumed they would be costuming the usual golden skinned teenaged District 4 beauty (why is it that so many out of that District are so good looking? I suppose being out in the sun and sea rather than cooped up in factories like other districts can't hurt). Instead, there's a black haired, sulky looking 8-year-old in a decidedly unsexy mermaid costume. Rather than looking alluring, she looks ridiculous. I smirk a little, thinking that this may certainly hurt District 4, and thus the whole Career alliance's chances. All the better.

As for the rest? District 3, both dressed in some sort of dark outfit studded with small lights—no way. I feel bad for the lady old enough to be my grandmother, and the little boy who's only now learning to walk (getting ready to toddle off the chariot, by the look of it), but I need allies who can help me as much as I help them. The Hunger Games isn't the place for charity

District 6 is out as well. The girl—like all the girls this year—looks out of her depth, terrified. The tributes have been dressed as old-timey chauffeurs, the people who would be in charge of taking you places. The man looks weak. No help there.

District 7 is dressed as trees, as usual. I supposed they and the tributes around them should just be glad no one decided to light their branches on fire this year. The costumes make it hard to see anything about them, but the older male tribute, the mayor, looked like a possibility, although I'm not at all sure I can trust him.

District 8, in their patchwork outfits, have obviously already bonded, and I don't want the older gentleman badly enough to ally with a baby. District 9 isn't even worth considering. The girl is a total non-entity, and the boy may be drunk, the way he's weaving about while trying to get in the chariot. They're dressed as stalks of wheat, another staple along with 7's tree costumes. District 10 is little better—the boy is clearly young and scared, the girl little better. Both are dressed as cows, complete with flaming belts. As pitiful an attempt to cash in on the fire craze as my own costume, although at least they're not forced into trying to be sexy.

District 11, though. Both the tributes last year were contenders, and this year's female tribute is a Victor's sister. She could well be someone worth allying with, even if she is a girl I'd previously discounted. From the way she's looking around, she may be using this time in the same way that I am. Interesting.

The District 11 boy is also intriguing. Clearly some kind of criminal, judging by his reaping, although criminals often do well in the Games. But Gamemakers don't tend to want criminals to win (it sends a bad message or something), so if I ally with him, then I may not even have to kill him myself—the Gamemakers will do it for me. Or he'll turn on me. Tough call. Plus, I'm not sure he's all there—instead of getting in the chariot and getting ready like everyone else, he's inching closer and closer to the District 10 tributes, staring at their costumes. Wonder what's up with that.

So that leaves District 12—well, whatever else you may say about them, their stylists are clearly the best. This year they've stuck to the fire theme they started last year but took it to a new level. While the rest of the stylists are desperately trying to add fire to their tributes costumes wherever possible, District 12 resemble beautiful glowing coals. The girl looks ethereal and beautiful, she'll get sponsors for sure, although I don't know if she has any sort of real survival skills. The boy, though—where Lilah looks beautiful, Quartz appears menacing. His eyepatch is a glittering black against the glow of the costume, and his good eye is watching the other tributes the same way I am.

Yes, if I'm to have any allies, I should start with the District 12 boy.

_Carissa Martin, 15, D10_

Oh, I could just _kill_ that Katniss Everdeen. Her stupid stylist puts her in that stupid flame costume last year, and now they're forcing it on everyone. I have this stupid flaming belt on my cow costume (every year, cows! Our stylist is worse than District 7's, no question! At least District 7 isn't on fire, even if they are trees), and I think my stylist isn't quite getting it right, because this thing is _hot_.

The chariot ride themselves were only a blur of screaming crowds and lights. I tried to connect with the audience, but our costumes are so ugly that I don't think I made much of an impression. Fred was worse; he was tried his hardest not to cry, but didn't succeed. I kept an eye on the screens above to try to see who got the most coverage, like my mentor told me. District 1, of course. District 12, with their incredible costumes (although I'm not sure even that can save the girl—she seems like a moron) and the drama of last year still hanging over them. The cameras lingered a lot on the more unusual contestants—the old woman from 3, the baby from 8, the toddler. I think I only saw my face once after our entrance, and Fred not at all. I know my mentor will be disappointed, but I'll just have to work really hard during training, get a good score, and really show my personality in the interview. The interview carries more weight for sponsors than the chariot ride anyway.

With the chariot ride finally over, I slump against the railing, ripping off my stupid belt but not ready yet to go inside. Now that we're in the Capitol, this whole thing actually seems real, and I know that there's a good chance I'll never see my family again.

Mom, Steele, Lillianne, all gone. Our last meeting was so brief, I barely got to say goodbye. I always thought that tributes got a full hour to say goodbye to their families and friends, but mine were hustled in and out within 15 minutes. I only had time to hug everyone, reassure them that I would do my best, tell them I would come home.

And I almost feel like I could come home. I'm smart, I'm a good runner, I've spent time outdoors, which is more that I can say for some of the tributes. I don't know if I could kill anyone, but there's some precedent for staying hidden and letting everyone else kill each other before I need to. I can do it. Where there's a will, there's a way. That's what my dad always said.

Dad… The last thing my mom said to me before she was escorted out the door was, "Make your dad proud." Dad disappeared when I was 10. He left for work one day and just never came back. I was mad at him for a long time, thinking he'd run out on us, but my mom never was. She always said that something had happened to him, that he would never leave us voluntarily, and she was so strong in her belief, so calm, that eventually I had to believe her, even if I don't think I'll ever see him again.

Shaking my head to clear it of such dismal thoughts, I realize I'm the only tribute left in the staging area. I need to go up to my room, try to get some sleep before tomorrow. The first day of training. If I'm ever going to have any possibility of winning this thing, I'm going to have to work extra hard at training. MY survival skills are okay, but I have no weapons training at all.

With that in mind, I head toward the doors, but once inside all I see is a maze of corridors. I know I need to get to the elevators, but I can't remember where they are. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man walking past the doors, so I decide to ask him.

"Excuse me," I start. The man starts to turn to me, and I see his eyes widen and he quickens his walk away from me. I didn't get a good look at him, but, just for a moment, he looks familiar. But it can't be, can it?

I run after the figure, yelling, "Dad? Dad?" but by the time I turn the corner, he's gone.


	17. FIGHT CLUB

**A/N: Here you guys are, enjoy! We're in Day 1 of training. This chapter focuses on the Careers and what they're up to. The next chapter will be either Training Day 2, or the afternoon of Day 1.**

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – FIGHT CLUB

_Gloss Tiberius, 24, D1_

Career training teaches you how to kill. It doesn't teach you how to live with killing. That's what I want to tell these tributes, these children, these wannabe Careers. Besides killing, what training teaches you is to _survive_. You learn that the most important thing, more than winning, is living. Even when you hate it, when you feel something inside come loose every time you stab another human, the need to go home, to stay alive is the strongest. I can't explain that to these people. Maybe that's not what they got out of training. Or maybe they just don't know yet.

I remember my first day training in the Capitol—the need to show off, to prove what a big, badass Career I was. To intimidate the smaller, younger tributes. But then, in the arena, it was different. After the first day, the first kill, I felt lost. And after awhile, the only need was the need to go home to my sister. And that's what I did. I was a child when I went into the Games. But not when I got out.

But now—look at them. In some ways, it's like being transported back to my first time. You've got your overconfident Careers; your usual hopeless washouts, destined to be fodder for the bloodbath; your middle-of-the-road, terrified, unprepared-but-trying tributes—they hang out at the knot, plant, and camouflage stations, learning skills they hope will keep them alive. Maybe they'll have a go at the knife or club station. But they'll never be able to kill, never be able to win. Then you have the dark horses—those tributes from non-Career districts who seem to know what they're doing. You have to watch out for them, although some will lose their nerve when it comes time to actually kill.

I survey the tributes around me—yes, both from 2 are clearly in the Career camp. So is the boy from 4, although he seems to be having an argument with the little girl who's his partner. The boy from 5 isn't even trying. Bloodbath for sure. Also the girl from 7, both from 9, both from 10—no hopers. The girl from 3 who's looking after the toddler tribute, and her apparent ally, the other guardian from 8—they're middle of the road, definitely. The willowy girl from 5, and the man from 7—both are dark horses. I'll keep my eye on them. Everyone else it's hard to read yet—is the girl from 12 really such a flibbertigibbet, or is she faking it? The boy from 11 hasn't left the fire station since the second he got here, two hours ago.

Time to cement my alliance, although it would be foolish of them not to agree. Who wouldn't want to be in a Career pack with two tried-and-true Careers? I walk over to the pair from District 2, twirling my sword carelessly. They look up as I approach, wary but interested.

"Gloss Tiberius," I say, holding out my hand. "District 1. Victor of the 67th Hunger Games." A little bragging never hurt anyone.

"I know, man," the boy gulps. "I'm Julius Spillers. District 2. I watched your Games. You were awesome, man. It's so cool to actually meet you."

"Alliance?" I ask. No point in beating around the bush. If I learned nothing else in my Games, at least I know that alliances are key.

"Definitely, man! Definitely!" Julius enthuses. I turn to his district partner, the quietly confident girl.

"And you?" I ask. "Are you in, too?"

"Sure," she says, but she looks a little nervous. Maybe she's remembering the way my sister betrayed her entire alliance. If so, then good for her. It's good to know your allies' histories. She seems smarter than her partner, which bodes well for her. Julius may be strong and enthusiastic, but he's certainly not the sharpest knife in Cornucopia.

_Abby Smith, 16, D2_

I'm terrified of my own alliance—how terrible is that? My stylist was right, then—I'm no District 2 tribute. I'm just a 16-year-old girl who made a bad, prideful decision. Why didn't I accept any volunteers? I could be sitting at home, debating the chances of whatever bloodthirsty female took my place, but instead I'm trying to recall everything I ever learned during my brief time at the Academy and trying not to reveal how absolutely horrifying I find the rest of my alliance.

Gloss isn't too bad. He's easygoing and laughs a lot, doesn't seem to take anything too seriously. But even so, he's not just District 1, he's also a Victor. There's no getting around that unlike the rest of us (except Cashmere), he _knows_ he will kill. I watched him kill.

My session this morning with my mentors was not helpful. Both of them are concentrating all their efforts on Julius, their only words to me a warning to stick to the Career Alliance, as I'll never make it far on my own.

I still haven't decided if their advice is correct, but there's no reason to antagonize my "allies" yet. If I decide to, I'll avoid or break the alliance in the arena, but not yet.

For now, I pick up my knives and head to the nearest throwing station. It's time to show everyone that I may not be a typical District 2 tribute, but I'm still a threat.

_Rosemary McHenry, 8, D4_

No one thinks I'm dangerous, but I'll show them. When I heard that anyone could be in the Games this year, it was the best day of my life. I've been training since I was 6—I've always known that I'll be in the Games someday, that it's the only way to get out of my miserable life and into the life I deserve. I'd been planning to enter the Games when I turned 12, but this way I get out so much sooner and I can also be the youngest Victor ever!

I don't know why everyone else in the orphanage hates the Games so much. You get out of the orphanage, you get fame and money and beautiful things. Already I've been treated like a princess here. What's not to love? I'll have advantages over everyone else, too. I'm young and quick. I have more energy than them. I can fit places they can't (even though I won't be hiding—only cowards hide). I have it in me to win, and I want it more than anyone here.

When I heard the announcement, I started making my plan right away. Step one was to get into the Games. I made sure I didn't tell anyone my plans because I knew poopy old Mizz Moffatt would try to stop me, the same way she tried to stop me when she found me training in the backyard. Now I go down to the deserted beaches to train, I'm not stupid. So I kept really quiet and snuck up to the platform while everyone else was fighting, even though it was really hard and I wanted to go in there and beat some people up so bad.

So now I'm in the Games. Step Two is to make sure I'm in the Career Alliance, which shouldn't be that hard since I am District 4, after all. It shouldn't be, but Devin is being a big doody head about it. He keeps shaking his head and saying "But you're so young!" He wants me to make an alliance with one of the grownups, one of the nice older girls. He wants them to take care of me, he says the Careers are too dangerous for me. He says if they hunt down my alliance, he'll help me get away.

What does he know? I don't want to be in some poopy nice people alliance. I don't want anyone to take care of me. I don't want any grownups around. I don't need them in District 4, and I don't need them here. I want to be a Career! I want to hunt down tributes with the rest of my pack! I'm fierce and I'm dangerous and I want everyone to know it.

When I tell Devin all that, he looks a little sick. "Whatever," he says, "Talk to Gloss about it. He's the leader." So that's what I'm going to do. As the girl from District 2 walks away, I come over to take her place. The two guys quit talking and look down at me.

"Can I help you?" the blond one says. Gloss—he won his Games the year I was born.

"I want to be a Career," I told him. He looks down at me some more, tilting his head to the side. He's really tall, with a lot of muscles. I wish I was tall. I wish I had muscles. No matter how much I practice, I never seem to get muscles. Nobody will even take me in to train until I turn 10, so I have to do it all on my own. Being young sucks. If I had parents they could teach me, but instead all I have is the poopy orphanage, and Mizz Moffatt hates the Games.

"And you are?" Now the big bulky dark one is sneering at me.

"Rosemary McHenry, District 4," I reply, pulling myself up to my full 4'8" height.

"We don't allow little girls in the Careers," says the boy, who must be District 2, Julius.

"I didn't come over here to talk to _you_, I'm talking to Gloss," I say with as much dignity as I can muster. I deliberately turn so my back is to Julius, facing the leader of the Careers. "Well?"

Gloss stifles a laugh. "Julius has a point. You are pretty young."

I start to argue, but Gloss cuts me off, chuckling. "Well, you do have a lot of spunk, and that'll serve you well with us. You're in." He claps me on the back hard enough make me stumble, but I hardly notice.

Step Two, achieved! Next step: Impressing the Gamemakers.

I head over to the small weapons station, but I manage to throw Julius a scathing look on my way out. He better watch out. He's first on my list once the Careers break up.

_Devin Cod, 26, D4_

I know Gloss is a Victor, and a badass and all, but I wonder sometimes if he really knows what he's doing. All morning, while the rest of us have been practicing—or desperately trying to learn—weapons and survival training, Gloss has been chatting and laughing. I mean, he's fun to hang out with, and he is leading the Careers, but I hope he's as good and as in shape as he thinks he is. Maybe since he survived his first Games, he's forgotten what it's like to think that the odds are stacked against you.

Me? I've been having an extremely educational morning. It's true that I'm pretty rusty with the weapons since I haven't trained in eight years, but I'm definitely stronger and faster than I used to be. I can stay up longer, sleep less. My time on the boat—my time on a less successful boat, especially, one that needed every man at every moment to keep us going—has effectively trained me for the Games. I should remember to recommend this training to my mentor. Or maybe I'll instigate the new training myself after I win… but wasting my time with day dreams won't help me get through the arena. I don't know what Gloss's plan is for training—perhaps he doesn't have one—but my time will be used effectively here, learning new weapons and strategies and perfecting the ones I already know.

Now that it's lunch, though, I can't deny Gloss's charm. He's keeping us all in stitches, talking about the Capitol, enough that I've barely had time to eat any of my lunch. We're all six sitting together, a complete Career alliance, with no outsiders. We're by far the loudest group in the cafeteria, with the others mostly sitting alone or in groups of one or two, whispering at the loudest.

But I look up after a particularly bawdy joke to see trouble coming straight toward us in the form of District 7's male tribute, Mayor Robert Hardwick. He plops his tray down next to Cashmere without asking. She silently moves her chair a little farther away from him.

"Well?" he demands, dropping into the chair and beginning to shovel food into his mouth.

"Well, what?" Gloss says, smiling a little. "Can we help you?"

"Mayor Robert Hardwick, District 7." He sticks out his hand, but Gloss only looks at it.

"Yes…?" Gloss drawls. The mayor flushes.

"I want in."

"Into the Careers? Sorry, man. No can do. We're full up. Space for six people only, you see, and we just added our last member this morning." Gloss ruffles Rosemary's hair affectionately. She glares at him. "Anyway, sorry 'bout that old man, but you know how it is. Gotta keep the alliance small. No hard feelings and all that?" Gloss sends a 1000-watt smile in Mayor Hardwick's direction. The mayor does not look appeased or amused.

"I'm practically a Career," he says, whining a little. "I was raised in District 2! I went through the Academy! I _belong_ with you people!"

Gloss's smile switches off suddenly. "Yeah, I heard about you in the Capitol. Heard you're a coward and a bully. We don't need you in the Careers. You're not District 2 anymore, _Mayor_." He practically spits the last word. He looks the mayor up and down, adding, "And it's obviously been a long time since you were at the academy."

The mayor stands, fuming, and then stalks away.

"You'll regret this, District 1!" he shouts over his shoulder, before almost running over the fat kid from District 5, who has gone back to get seconds (or maybe thirds or fourths). "Out of the way, you fucking fatso!" he yells, throwing his lunch into the garbage, tray and all, with a clang and storming out of the room.

Gloss looks unperturbed. "Ever hear the one about President Snow and the cow?" he asks, launching into another joke.


	18. DISH BEST SERVED

**A/N: Sorry for the extreme delay between chapters, but hopefully this one more than makes up for it. The Mayor's a pretty nasty piece of work, isn't he? Have I made him too villainous? I'm worried he's a little two-dimensional, but he's certainly fun to write! Thoughts?**

**WARNING!: This chapter contains bad language and disturbing material.**

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – DISH BEST SERVED

_Mayor Robert Hardwick, 38, D7_

Fuck those guys, fuck all those guys. They think they're so great, young and strong and arrogant with their training and their alliance. They think they're the best; they think they're immortal. I'll show them. I'll show them all.

As I leave the cafeteria, making sure to slam the door behind me, give them a fright the little rabbits, I can see the Avoxes motioning at me frantically. I know I'm still supposed to be in there. I know I'm not supposed to be back in the training room yet. But seriously, fuck that. Fuck this. Fuck this stupid _game_, and all the residents of the Capitol. I'm the Mayor of District 7 and I do what I want, when I want, and how I want. No one knows that better than the damn little red-headed mute bitch they gave me last night. I know they sent her to me because it's been so long since the last time I'd touched a woman. My damn frigid wife sure won't do it. Ever since she turned 30, she won't let me do it with the lights on. Even before that she wasn't too happy about doing it. I know when she married me she was just doing it to get out of the lumber mills, where her hands were roughened and raw from hauling trunks onto conveyer belts and her face was blistering from the heat of the machinery. But she was pretty enough, and she flirted with me every chance she got, and I knew as Mayor I needed a wife and family. It's respectable after all. So I took her and then I took her, if you know what I mean and I think you do, but it was never enough for me. She's grateful enough that I took her out of that hellhole to allow me my other girls, and she's stupid, for sure, but she's smart enough to know that she's got nowhere to go without me. She better hope I win this damn Game, or else she's screwed.

I don't even know why I keep thinking of her. Maybe because that girl last night was so pitiful, so quiet (of course she is, they cut out her tongue ha ha), it reminded me of my first time with Trina. So inexperienced. I'm going to be sad when we get into the arena, it'll be at least a week or two before I'll have a woman again, even if I'm very fast with them. Maybe one of the District girls? I could form an alliance, get on her good side, dispatch her only at the very end, when I know I'm close to being back in civilization (better than civilization—the Capitol! The women there _love_ Victors, or so I hear). Yes, that is certainly a plan, one I'll need to think on. I can be awfully charming, I'm sure I can convince at least one of these bitches that I'm her friend…

_Remy Tennant, 19, D5_

I thought I would be the first person back in the training room, but when I get there, Mayor Hardwick is already throwing a spear violently into a target. I was planning to work on my spear-throwing skills, a definite weakness of mine, but one look at the man's face—dark, thunderous, possibly even murderous—convinces me to train elsewhere. Uncle Ted advised me to work on weapons today, spending an equal time on all of them, and to do survival skills tomorrow. I've been fooling a bit, pretending to be mediocre at my best weapons, although I doubt I'm fooling anyone. Everyone knows that I'm a Victor's niece, and they're all expecting great things from me.

I'm concentrating on throwing knives when he comes up behind me. He leans toward me and I feel his breath tickling on the back of my neck. My hackles go up and I turn around slowly.

"Hello, Remy," he says. All traces of the anger I witnessed earlier are gone from his face. His smile is big and his teeth shockingly white. "It is Remy, isn't it?" he continues, oblivious to my obvious dislike for him. "I'm Mayor Robert Hardwick."

"I know who you are," I reply stiffly.

"Good, good," he says. He keeps moving closer and closer to me, trying to touch me. "Well, I've been watching you, Remy, and you're clearly my biggest competition—"

"Bigger than the Career alliance?" Maybe he's been watching me, but I've been watching _them_, and they're certainly a force to be reckoned with this year—even the little girl, I think. It will take something extraordinary to prevent a Career win this year.

"Them? I'm not worried about them. Overconfident, over-the-hill—" _Yeah, like you're one to talk. Pot, meet kettle,_ "—nothing but puling children and jumped-up wannabes. We can take them out easily."

"We?"

"If you'll accept my offer of an alliance. Together, we can be magnificent." He has finally managed to back me against a wall, blocking any escape, and he puts a hand on my arm and gives me what I am sure he thinks is a winning smile.

I pull my hand away sharply, saying "NO!" much louder than I had intended. The other tributes, who are slowly trickling through the doors, turn to look at us. I struggle to regain control of myself. It will not do to get a reputation of being hysterical. Every moment counts. Every moment is watched.

I smile at Mayor Hardwick, trying hard to seem congenial, although I detect a certain brittleness around the corners, "I'm sorry. That was out of line. Thank you for your offer of an alliance. I'm not yet sure if I'd like to ally with anyone, but I will let you know when I decide." My voice shakes on the last word, betraying my inner turmoil. "I haven't decided yet"—bullshit. I will never ally with this man; I would rather die. And I'm quite certain that being his ally would result in my death, and probably at his hands, while my back is turned, after I've outlived my usefulness.

"_You_ will let _me_ know what _you've_ decided?" The Mayor looks outraged. I'm not sure many people say no to him. "Consider my offer revoked, girl. You've made a huge mistake. You won't live to regret this."

He stalks off, and I give myself a moment to regain my composure and stop shaking. I've made my first enemy, and now there's one more obstacle to getting home alive.

_Jasmine Juneberry, 15, D11_

I'm panting as I try to lift the sword in front of me. If I can't pick it up, how am I supposed to _fight_ with it? Coming to this station was a stupid idea, but I didn't know where else to go. Everyone will expect me to survive by hiding—the way my sister hid all the way to victory, the way Rue scrambled from tree to tree like a squirrel—but I can't go the expected route. The tributes this year—they'll try to smoke me out of the trees and when they do I'll be ready for them, weapons trained.]

It's a good theory, but so far I haven't been able to master any weapons at all. My greatest fear is that I'll go into the arena completely defenseless, weaponless, vulnerable. I may be able to last 'til the Top 12, maybe even the Top 8 based on my survival skills, hiding in the trees, but there is no way that this year's tributes—and Gamemakers-will let me get farther than that. Not based on hiding alone. Not in a Quarter Quell. I have to do better.

Suddenly, I feel big hands wrap around mine, helping me lift the sword. They let go, and it thuds to the ground again. I turn to see one of the older tributes behind me, although I can't remember which one. Maybe the man from 6? But no, he had glasses. 7 or 8, then, probably. I smile at him, and he smiles back.

"Looks like you're having some trouble with that weapon," he says.

"Yeah," I reply, looking down. Why is he here?

"I'm Mayor Robert Hardwick, District 7." He holds out his hand to me, and I take it.

"Jasmine Juneberry, District 11."

"Oh yes, your sister won a few years ago, yes? You look like her. I bet you'll do well, too. I could do with someone like that on my team."

"You—you want—" I'm stammering a little bit. This man is very handsome, and he's looking at me like I'm his savior. But I've seen him out there, swinging weapons around, firing arrows. He's good, very good. Why would he need someone like me?

"An alliance? Of course, my dear. I could win this on my own, but I'm only one man. I'll need someone to help me guard, to gather supplies, just to chat with. I'm lonely, you know. And—" He pauses, looking uncertain.

"Yes?"

"Well, I'm beginning to doubt if I should win these Games at all. I'm an old man, I've led a wonderful life, but someone like you—someone with a family and a whole life ahead of them—someone young and pretty—well, someone like that should win these Games. I could help you do that."

"You would? You would do that for me?" Violet would be so happy, she would stop crying all the time, she could stop feeling guilty. "That would be amazing! Thank you so much!"

"Of course my dear, it will be my pleasure. Now, let's go find you a weapon you can really use. The slingshot, perhaps?"

He smiles at me and walks away, and I can see the whole Games opening up before me. I actually have a chance now, a chance to come home to Violet and Ivy. Everything's coming up Jasmine.


	19. ALLY AND AXIS

**A/N: Whew, another chapter, late as usual. We're getting closer and closer to the arena, guys, and you have NO IDEA how much is going to go down there. I have SO MANY plans. Anyway, I think by the end of the chapter, all the alliances will have been made. Enjoy! **

CHAPTER NINETEEN – ALLY & AXIS

_Nox Evermore, 16, D3_

Barry is learning how to walk, and also how to throw a tantrum. Oh, the timing on this is _not_ _good._ I have no idea how I'm going to get through this, but for Barry's sake I have to. I'm sitting on the floor, trying to coax Barry into a survival station, when a shadow looms over me.

My breath catches in my throat, and for one second I'm sure that it's that horrible District 7 Mayor, who got into loud and public fights with the Career pack and the girl from 5, and who spent the rest of yesterday skulking around various female tributes. But when I look up, I see something completely different. It's a man with a baby.

Relief washes over me; this must be the other tribute/guardian pair, the ones from 8. The man has a drawn look to his face, like he hasn't stopped worrying since his daughter's name was drawn from the reaping ball. I know the feeling.

"Hi," I say distractedly, trying to coax Barry, who has plumped down in the middle of the floor and refused to move, into a less trafficked part of the room.

"Hi, I'm Joe," the man replies. "Let's see if we can't get your little man out of the way here." He looks around the room, spies the paints on the camouflage station, and, without warning, picks Barry up and brings him over to the station.

Barry, startled, begins to scream, but quiets when he finds the paints.

"Oh thank god," I say. "You're a lifesaver."

"Thanks," he says modestly, looking down. I've always liked kids." There's a sadness in his voice that I'm scared to acknowledge, so I just busy myself with my own paints, drawing blue swirls directly onto the tabletop.

"Do you—" he cuts off, looking embarrassed. "I mean, Michael and I—" he nods to the older, military-looking gentleman at the sword station, "We're allies. And I was wondering if you—I mean—"

"Yes." I cut him off. "Yes, I'll join your alliance. We guardians need to stick together, I guess."

"Sure," he says, and smiles for the first time. "I'll let Michael know, and maybe we can figure out a strategy?"

As he jogs off, I start wondering if there's anyone else I'd like to add to the alliance, but, even more, wondering how I'm ever going to admit that I can't remember this man's name—or his daughter's.

_Beatrix Hopper, 87, D3_

This is no place for the likes of me. I've known that ever since I left the town square. Not just this so-called training room, but the whole Capitol, with all its glitz and glamour a mask that barely covers the bloodthirsty face underneath. This will be the end of me, I've never doubted it for a second. I'm too old for this stuff. I've seen my husband and son die, I've seen my babies give birth to babies, who have their own babies. I knew Panem before the Rebellion and before the Games. I've seen it all, and I will not put up with any more.

But…

I don't think I can just die, either. You don't get through 80-some years in District 3 without some survival instinct, a hardness inside you that refuses to let you break, no matter what. Perhaps the Capitol thought that throwing an old lady into the arena would be a good idea, but I'm here to make sure they realize their mistake. I have plans. Believe you me, I have plans.

But for my plans to work, I need the right ally. I survey my choices. The kids from Districts 1, 2, and 4 are out. Even if I'd wanted them, they'd never let an old woman into their alliance. I'd seen that yesterday with the unpleasant mayor-man from 7. But I wouldn't want them anyway. It was the boy from 2 who killed my Benjy. I know it wasn't _this_ boy from 2, but after I watched the reapings… well, it might as well have been. I am staying away from him and his allies, but if there's any way I can kill him, I will. For Benjy. For all those poor kids who are killed by bloodthirsty beasts like them, and who were cheered on by the Capitol.

I'd thought about trying to recruit Barry, or more accurately, his guardian, that girl Nox. I know it's what Wiress wants me to do. But I'm afraid that the little boy will slow me down, and I'm slow enough already thankyouverymuch. Emotionally, allying with them would be good for me, but I want to live too much to intentionally choose an ally who will probably get me killed. Barry's a cute kid, and his guardian looks like a sweet girl who would have had an amazing life ahead of her. And if I can't win this, then I guess they're my next pick, and that's not such a bad reason to choose an ally. But then again, I think with or without me, their chances of winning are almost zero, and I need to choose someone who can help me as much as I help them. My strategy will hopefully result in sponsors and gifts, but I've got to have someone to get me through the bloodbath and help me fight off other tributes, not just huddle up and survive. Huddlers and hiders never win.

Of course, the girl from 11's sister won through hiding, so maybe it's not such a bad idea. And she'll have a lot of sponsors right off the bat, because of her Victor-sister, and maybe she'll already be partially trained. No, she's not a bad pick for an ally at all, but I see her too much with the man from District 7, and I fear she's already got an ally. I don't want to be too close to him, and somehow I doubt he'd have much interest in allying with an old bat like me. Still, if I could get her away from him…

Groaning, I stand up from the chair the trainer brought for me this morning. Tributes aren't supposed to sit in chairs, of course, they're supposed to keep moving and learn the skills of killing, but this particular trainer, who overlooks the knot-tying station, seems to have a soft spot for me. He calls me Granny, and I don't even want to hit him for the disrespect. He reminds me of my grandson Robert, and any tie to home, no matter how superficial, soothes me a little. Even though I get to sit through all the training—what do they think I will be able to learn how to do? I can't even hold a bow, let alone shoot it—I am still more and more exhausted every day. Gaining the correct ally is of the utmost importance for my survival in the arena. I can do _nothing_ on my own.

It takes me a while to hobble across the room to Jasmine, which is fine since it gives her time to leave the presence of that odious District 7 tribute. Which, luckily, she does. I catch up to her, panting (how can I survive in the arena if it's so difficult for me to even cross the training room?), as she moves to the knot-tying station. I stand next to her, picking up a piece of rope, but my hands shake too badly to even attempt to follow the trainer. I turn my gaze to the girl next to me. She's small, with smooth dark brown skin, her hair in perfect tiny braids looped around her head. I smile at her, but she's concentrating on the ropes in front of her.

"Hi," I venture, but she doesn't respond. This isn't going well. I try again. "You remind me of one of my granddaughters." This isn't true at all, those girls are holy terrors, running around all the time, all high energy and high spirits. They couldn't be more different than this solemn, dark eyed girl. But it does the trick. She finally turns to look at me.

"Yeah?" she says quietly.

I nod. "And I was thinking… there's no one I'd like better to have near me in the arena than my granddaughter." Lies. They wouldn't last three minutes in the arena, and I'd go down with them.

Her face clouds. "I already have an ally. He's going to protect me." She turns away from me.

"Honey… are you sure? Are you sure he's going to be good for you?" There's a part of myself that hates doing this. That man is clearly a more capable tribute than me. He probably can protect her. But I don't trust him, and my long-buried maternal instinct is kicking in when I see this vulnerable girl teaming up with a predator, without even realizing it. "Are you sure he's not… using you?"

But she turns to me with a snarl. "He said you'd do this! He said everyone would be jealous! Jealous that I have an amazing ally and everyone is stuck with crap tributes like you! He said you'd try to turn me against him! Well, it won't work! He's my ally! He picked me, picked me out of everyone and we're not opening the alliance to anyone else!" Her voice is getting louder and higher and shriller and I start to back away. This girl is a lost cause, and I wonder if she's realized that she's probably signed her own death warrant.

Slowly, I hobble back to my chair, trying to pretend I don't notice that all eyes have turned toward me, that all the tributes have stopped their practices to watch my slow progress, that they all have seen my failed attempt to gain an ally. I suppose this means my death warrant is signed as well.

But when I get to my chair, I find that someone is waiting for me. It's the girl from 7. I sit down, pretending I don't see her, trying to figure out her motivation. Why is she here? She's not much of a contender, as far as I can tell. She can't want to ally with me, that would be crazy. But, apparently, she does.

"I hate him, you know." I nod. I'm not surprised. It's probably not fun to be a citizen under that man's rule. But is that enough reason to tie yourself to an old woman with no skills? Apparently.

"You remind me of my Granna." Well, that's more or less what I was going for, just with a different tribute in mind. "I… I have some skills. I'm really good with an axe. I'm trying not to let anyone know, but I am. I'm stronger than I look." She'd have to be—she looks like a strong breeze would blow her away, but this is probably the best alliance I'm going to get, and I would be a fool not to take it.

I smile at the girl, Amaranth, and nod my head. She smiles shyly back at me, and I see a glimpse of her hidden prettiness. If she lives, she'll be a heartbreaker. But even together, I don't think our chances are that high. That's the real heartbreaker.


	20. JUDGMENT DAY

**A/N: Late as usual. Apologies, etc. Thanks to Tigerlils for reminding me how long ago I put up the last chapter. Here's the training scores. Next up will be Interviews, and then the blood and gore starts! Hooray! R/R, please, I could use some concrit (or praise). Sorry if this chapter seems a little rushed, I was trying to finish it before I left work.**

CHAPTER TWENTY – JUDGMENT DAY

_Dionysus Scissortail, Junior Gamemaker_

This is always one of the best days of the Games. The actual Games themselves are fun, of course, but they're also a lot of work—manipulating the weather, the mutts, the traps, to engineer the best possible circumstance. It's a lot of 20 hour days, and the night shift is both the most uncomfortable and, once the Games are fully in swing, some of the most work. It's technically an honor to be promoted to the night shift, but I've always been perfectly happy to be a low-level Gamemaker.

But scoring? Scoring is fun. We get a feast, and wine, and we get our first real look at the tributes. Sure, we've been watching them at training every day, but it's hard to follow exactly what happens when there's so many of them running about being awful at things. Last year, I watched a kid be awful at all sorts of swords and things, but missed that he could camouflage himself into a wall if needed. Poor guy—if he'd hung on a few minutes longer, he could've had a chance. I know Seneca said that the whole "Two Victors" premise was a ruse, but how could you deny those two star crossed lovers from 12? Especially considering Katniss's reaction to Peeta's death…

Seneca says I'm too softhearted for a Gamemaker. Maybe he's right, but I just get so caught up in the Games and their players. I like to take out the brutal ones, try to save the weak ones. I like to try to upset the odds. I'm playing a Game with myself, I guess. How is it different than the bookies?

Anyway, scoring is fun because the tributes really let loose with both their real abilities, and also their personalities. Katniss became a contender and earned her score for her temper and spunk as much as her shooting. I can only hope that today's tributes will show even a fraction of Katniss's sass. I do love sass.

We all get settled and Seneca signs the door Avox for the first tribute.

_Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker_

Ah, District 1. Entitled prettyboys. They win because they have the means to win. Obviously he'll get a high score. District 1 always does. Gloss is no exception. Before he even walks in, I see my fellow Gamemakers writing 9s and 10s on their scorecards. Typical.

Gloss hasn't changed much since his first time here. Again, he runs in and starts hacking away at things indiscriminately.

Cashmere, again, is more reserved. She's always thought things through. She counsels her tributes well, gives them sound advice. We've had more female District 1 Victors than any other since her win. She demonstrates six different weapons and two survival stations before we tell her she can go. She never looks at us.

When Cashmere leaves, I motion the next tribute in. District 2 is my favorite. They have nothing but will. To even make it to the point where a tribute can volunteer involves years of brutal training. I respect that. They throw away their childhood for an attempt to throw away their whole lives.

Julius is a typical tribute from 2. All brawn, no brains. I think they may beat the brains, and the humanity, out of you early in 2. I love them for that. Tributes from 2 are vicious, bloodthirsty, and, because of that, they are the most interesting tributes in the arena. They're unpredictable and will do anything. I write a 12 on my scorecard, knowing that sniveling snaps like Scissortail will bring the score down.

As Julius exits through the far door, his district partner enters. She's an entirely different sort of creature. Timid, bland. She's competent enough with the weapons, but she has none of the fire or verve typical of her district. I give her a score of two out of spite.

Both tributes from 3 are comically terrible. It takes the old woman almost her entire allotted time period just to reach the weapons stations, where she proceeds to do nothing at all. We have to wait interminably while she totters out the back exit. What a waste of time. I wish I could give her a 0, but mark down a 1 instead.

The other tribute from 3 is perhaps even more pathetic as the toddler's guardian attempts to demonstrate her own skills while the tot messes in the paint area. 2 for effort.

District 4 is competent as always, although the female tribute, the little girl, is surprising. She is a whirlwind of overzealous fervor, whipping from one station to the next. I like her. 8.

I know some of the Gamemakers, like that sniveling Scissortail, enjoy the scoring sessions. That's just one more reason why they'll never be the Head Gamemaker, why they'll never be anything at all. They're the sons of Capitol ministers, husbands of Snow's daughters. They're nepotism given flesh. They're lazy and they're weak. They _cheered_ when Templesmith announced the amended rule last year—no better than the citizenry, my compatriots.

There they are now, guzzling wine and greedily gnawing on turkey legs instead of watching the tributes. I'll admit that there's not much to watch right now. The boy from 5 is as fat as Scissortail, a disgusting quivering mass of boy who is simply crying in the middle of the archery station. I motion to the Avox to lead him out. No need to watch anymore. Another 1.

Slowly but surely the tributes trickle in and out, most never receiving a score above 7, many much, much lower than that. I don't know what President Snow was thinking with this twist. Babes and geezers. Children and fatties. The beautiful arena I've been working on for the last three years is going to be totally wasted on these morons. I doubt I'll get a chance to design another arena as perfect as this Quell.

Still, there are a few with promise. The tributes from 1, 2, and 4, of course, possibly excepting the girl from 2. The girl from 5, the man from 7.

And there are some who need to be taken out, regardless. The boy from 9 came in squinting his eyes and holding his head. He moaned the whole time about how bright and loud it was, and vomited on the camouflage station. It took 30 minutes before we could bring in his district partner, a little beige mouse of a girl, hardly worth our time.

The boy from 11 spent the whole time at the fire station, his eyes gleaming. I think he might be insane, which could certainly add some color into the Game, at least. I made a note on my sheet, along with the notation that meant he should not be allowed to win. The Victors emerge insane enough already, no need to compound whatever already exists.

As our last tribute trickles out, the utterly unremarkable girl from 12, I turn to my fellow Gamemakers to hold our tally.

"Papers in!" I call, handing my paper over to the designated accountant, Plutarch Heavensbee. He is a genius with numbers, responsible for all Games-related statistics. Kill count, accuracy, district win percentage—anything that can be calculated, Heavensbee's your man. I can't stand him. He should be glad he's useful, because he's got a soft spot for the tributes and cries at each other deaths. Terribly unprofessional. Still, he accumulates and averages all of our scores in record time. I'm only halfway through a glass of red wine when he finishes.

"Ahem. Here are the final scores. Aye if you agree, Nay to hold over for discussion. District 1. Gloss, 9."

"Aye," a chorus responds.

"Cashmere, 10."

"Aye." I wonder what her brother will say.

"District 2. Julius, 9."

"Aye."

"Abby, 7." A ridiculously high score for such a piece of twaddle, but I don't feel like fighting over it. I approve the score and Heavensbee continues unopposed:

District 3: Barry, 2. Beatrix, 3. District 4: Devin, 8. Rosemary, 8. District 5: Harold, 2.

"Nay!"

We look around for the dissenter. It's Scissortail. Of course it is. Snivelling piece of… Still, with a nay sounded, Heavensbee puts Harold Landers from District 5 aside. His partner Remy gets a 7 and passes without discussion.

District 6: Arthur, 4. Caela, 5. District 7: Mayor Robert Hardwick, 8.

"Nay!" This time it's me dissenting. I've got a bone to pick with the Mayor and I want his score to reflect it.

Amaranth from 7 gets a 4. District 8: Michael gets an 8, his partner, the baby and her father, get a 4. District 9: Alonzo, 3. Bailey, 2. District 10: Fred, the frightened 10-year-old boy who reeks of fear gets a 2. Carissa, 5. District 11: the firestarter gets a 4 (more on potential for destruction than any displayed ability). Jasmine, 6. District 12: Quartz, 8. Lilah, 5.

We settle back, most of the Gamemakers going for yet another glass of wine or beer, to discuss our two problem tributes.

"Okay," says Heavensbee, "First up, Harold Landers from District 5. Aggregate score was a 2. Dissenter, Dionysus Scissortail."

"Hmm, yes." Scissortail takes another swig of wine to wash down the cheese he's just gobbled. "Well, I think this is a ruse. I think the boy's faking."

"You can't fake fat!" one of the Assistant Junior Gamemakers chimes in. There's a good laugh.

"Still," Scissortail repeats adamantly. "I saw a look in the boy's eyes as he walked off. He's got a plan. He'd dangerous." The rest of the Gamemakers are still laughing, and it's time for me to have my say.

"You may be right." Everyone stops chuckling to look at me. "But, even if you are, obviously the boy wants a low score, so we should give it to him. I say the score of 2 stands. All agreed?" A chorus of ayes. "Opposed?" Scissortail shakes his head but remains quiet. "Great. Now, about Mayor Robert Hardwick."

I've completely taken over Heavensbee's job, but I don't care. "You guys gave Hardwick an 8. I disagree. The man is a bully, of course, but that will only be an asset in the arena. The real problem is that Hardwick is a coward. He refused to fight for the tribute spot in every reaping he was eligible. He's originally District 2! Despicable. I vote to either give him a 1 or a 12. Piss him off or send them after him."

The other Gamemakers seem dubious but eventually agree to give him a 10. I bet Hardwick thinks it's an honor.

Morons, all of them.


	21. INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE

**A/N: Here it is everybody! The last chapter of the Capitol! And semi-timely, too! They all head into the arena next chapter, so let me know who you think will make it out of the bloodbath & who has a chance at survival. I believe I've now given everybody a voice, so I can start killing them off. I'm having a blast writing this, and I hope you guys enjoy reading it! Hopefully the next chapter should be up pretty soon, as it was one of the first things I wrote. R/R, please! Also, if anyone wanted to make a story cover for me, I'd appreciate it. My artistic skills are close to nil.  
**

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE

_Fred Dyer, 10, D10_

I don't think my mentor likes me much. He's horribly mean to me, saying I have no strength, no wit, no bravery. He calls me names, and refuses to help me. He's real nice to Carissa though, and is always trying to get her alone to mentor her. He says she has a lot of promise, and that the Capitol people will be lining up to sponsor her. I wish he would say these things to me, but Carissa doesn't seem very happy about it. She spends a lot of time in her room, or with Maewyn.

I like Maewyn. She's our escort and she's real nice. She talks mostly to Carissa but she always makes sure to answer my questions and she gives me candy. She and Roy, my mentor, are prepping us for the interviews together. Roy refuses to help me, and Carissa refuses to be in a room alone with Roy. So this is what we're doing. Right now, everyone's focused on Carissa and her strategy. Roy is trying to make her be "sexy." He says it will help her get sponsors. Maewyn agrees, and starts putting some really tall shoes on Carissa's feet. Carissa seems real unhappy but she doesn't complain.

"So, girly-boy, what's it gonna be for you?" I wish Roy would stop looking at me like that. "How're we gonna convince people that you're a contender." He snickers, and I feel my eyes starting to water. I will not cry again. I will _not_.

But I can't help it. The tears are starting to trickle down my face and I start to hiccup. Maewyn comes bustling over to help me. "Now now, dear, don't cry!" she coos. She's making everything worse. Why shouldn't I cry? I just want to see my mom and dad again and I know I never will. Even if I had a helpful mentor, even if I had an ally, I will never ever win these Games. Who will sponsor a 10-year-old boy? How will I get a weapon? How will I use it? I never hit a single target during training.

Still sobbing, I try to explain this to Maewyn and Roy, explain how hopeless it is. Roy only snorts, saying, "Tell me something I don't know. This is the first sense you've talked all week, kitten." He cracks his knuckles, adding, "Well, if that's settled, I guess we don't need the boy anymore. Why don't you run along to your room, and I'll work with the girl." His eyes slide up and down Carissa's form as she wobbles in corner on impossibly tall shoes.

"Now, Roy," Maewyn tuts. "That's no way to treat a tribute. We want them to be happy, here! We know they'll do their best!" She turns to me. "Now, what if we exploited your condition? What if we based your interview angle around how helpless you are? You can cry on stage—but try to look prettier when you do it, dear—and play on the audience's sympathies." She looks thoughtful, but Roy seems unimpressed.

"Gamemakers don't like whiny tributes," he says.

"No, but the Capitol citizens love an underdog," Maewyn retorts. "If we turn on the waterworks—and that shouldn't be too hard—maybe we can get some sponsors from housewives and mothers."

Roy nods reluctantly. "That might actually work," he admitted. "Now, kiddo, our job is to make you sound as pathetic as possible. Not that it'll be hard," he added.

"And then we make you cry."

Today is going to be a long day.

_Arthur Bussing, 20, D6_

Caela glances over at the insensible couple sitting giggling in the corner, and then back at me. "I guess Ruby isn't coming?" she says, not really a question despite the lilt in her voice. We haven't seen our escort since we got off the train. She doesn't seem very interested in helping us.

I guess we'll just have to help ourselves.

Caela looks at me hopefully, and I revise my last thought. I guess I'll just have to help us.

It's crossed my mind, of course, not to help her, or to give her bad advice. One fewer person to worry about, to stand in my way. But in the end, I can't bear to do that. She's my district partner. I know her parents, although not well. She reminds me of my wife, Sandy. She ran forward to help that little girl—she has a kind heart (if a thoughtless one—that was a really stupid move). I can't betray her. I can't kill her, even indirectly.

I don't know what we'll do if we both make it to the end. I try not to think about it. I'd like to say that I'll sacrifice myself for me, but my will to live may be too strong. And hers isn't. She has almost no agency—she looks to me for everything. Why should I sacrifice myself for her? She's only a year younger than I am—though she often acts younger than her age. I have a wife and child—what does she have to live for?

…No. There is no reason to be thinking about this. The chances of us both surviving that long are slim. I should focus on the here and now, on the interviews, on getting out of the bloodbath alive. To that end, I look down at the notebook where I've been doodling ideas. So far I only have one: Don't Die.

Helpful.

I look up at Caela, trying to get her to think for herself. "What do you think we should do? What's your angle going to be?"

She looks at me helplessly. "I don't know. I thought I would be…nice?"

I sigh. "No, look, you need to be more than that. You have to stand out in this crowd of people all trying to stand out. I suggest…" I trail off, not sure what her angle will be. But then it comes to me. "Martyr," I muse. "No…too many death overtones. Ditto self-sacrifice. But something along those lines. Something about how you volunteered for that little girl."

I see her wince. I know she regrets that selfless act. "That's it! Selfless. That's your angle. Not so selfless you won't fight, of course." I give her a stern look. "You have to look like a contender, Caela, or it won't work. But that's it. Selfless." I smile, satisfied.

"What about you?" she asks. "What's your angle?"

"Oh, I've known that all along. Family man. I'm going to win for my family. Get them everything they've ever needed. I'm coming home for them. And I will come home."

She smiles, glad I know my angle. She hasn't worked out yet that if I come home, she won't. There's no way she'll survive without me. And, despite the nagging of my anti-conscience, I want her to survive. I wish we both could. But she never will without me. That I know.

_Katniss Everdeen, D12 Victor_

Everything has been a nightmare, everything since the moment Effie pulled Prim's name out of the reaping ball.

Somehow, watching this year, having to help but be unable to help, is worse than being a tribute myself. You wouldn't think that's true—what could be worse than fighting to the death? But at least when I was in the arena I could do something. I could fight.

At this time last year, I was sitting down there, in the last row, surrounded by friends, enemies, and as-yet-undiscovered allies. But now there's only me. Every year, a fleet of ghosts sit on that stage. Now, I'm stuck up here in the audience, in the roped off section for Victors, helpless. I can only watch these poor children, most of whom are doomed no matter what I do. I can help in some small ways, but I doubt it will ever be enough.

Haymitch sits beside me, already fairly drunk, pulling from his trusty flask. I finally understand him. The Capitol has taken everything. Even my sister, sweet Prim whose death I was trying to prevent by going into the arena. It would have been better if I'd died in the arena. The Careers would have done what Snow asked of them—they would have submitted to the indignities, the atrocities, our President proposed –their families would be alive, one of them would be alive, and Prim and Mother would be alive. And I would not, which seems the greatest mercy of all.

Below me sits my tribute, Lilah. I have no real hopes for her. She seems a silly thing. It will be best if she dies, and dies early, when she still remembers the luxury of the Capitol. Perhaps a quick beheading in the bloodbath…

I turn my head, sickened, as Caesar Flickerman comes onstage, ready to start the ghastly proceedings. The last words of the condemned. Dance for the audience, tributes, they might be your saving grace.

But even while I remain horrified at the Games and what they've done to me, I cannot abandon my tribute. Nor Haymitch's, since my mentor has given up entirely. Sometimes I wonder if he regrets helping me win last year. If he, too, wishes I had not survived. But I have to try, at least.

More and more I find myself watching Haymitch, and, more importantly, his flask.

And I wonder how long it will be before I find myself asking for a drink.

_Alonzo Alves, 18, D9_

My escort is such a bitch. She hasn't let me do anything fun since we got to the Capitol. She keeps talking about "focus" and "training." But I know. I know everything's going to go to shit as soon as I get into the arena. As far as I'm concerned, that's all the more reason to have fun now.

There's no wine in the arena, so I'm savoring the glass I'm drinking now. Thank god my stylist is on my side. He's been slipping me booze all week, as has my mentor, although his taste is pretty terrible. My stylist, though, he gets me some of the best stuff I've ever tasted. Works like a charm, too.

That's not the only thing he does for me. Apparently there are a large number of girls who are more than willing to meet a tribute, even if he's not from a "good" district. They show their appreciation in many, ah, gratifying ways. And they're so much better looking than the District 9 girls, too. Especially my partner. What a disappointment.

They're not all so bad, though. The girls from 2 and 5 are real lookers. Lean, taut… Still, I've had no luck. They're all "concentrating" on their "training" and what not. I've been concentrating on my sponsors. All those girls I met? They'll sponsor me. They'll convince their friends to sponsor me. And if I get enough sponsors, I'll have the key to the arena. It worked for Finnick.

That's what I'm doing today, at any rate. My strategy for the interview is "charming." Or not charming exactly, but "charmer." I think I'll be pretty good at it.

I sip discreetly out of the flask my stylist gave me. Liquid courage, that's the ticket. As Caesar Flickerman interviews the District 1 tributes—Gloss all bluster and bravado, Cashmere a sleek killing machine—I practice my 1,000-watt smiles and have another drink. My district partner gives me an annoyed look, but I ignore it. What's it to her if I have a little tipple here and there? We're not even allies—not that I would want to.

District 2 is just as predictable as District 1, although that delectable girl stumbles a little in her delivery. District 3 is interesting, as the guardian (another pretty one) talks about her tribute's life in the orphanage, and how she hopes helping him win will improve his life. It's true—one way or another, he'll never again have to worry about getting reaped. I snicker a little. The old woman talks about her long life and all the Games she's seen. She was around for the first one. She must be ancient. She talks about her ally, the girl from 7 (too pale and thin for me), and how important it is to protect the young (seems like she's getting close to criticizing the Games here… could be dangerous. Glad she's not my ally. Not that she asked).

District 4 takes the Career angle again, the man talking about how he'd missed his chance at the arena the first time, the little girl bragging about her skills. I wonder if she can back up her bragging. Annoying little snot. While we were training, she ran up to me, smacked me across the head with a practice sword and ran away. She was fast enough that the trainers didn't catch her—or maybe they didn't want to. Anyway, I blame that fully for the fact that I threw up in front of the Gamemakers. I bet she gave me a concussion.

Districts 5, 6, and 7 fly by while my nerves get worse and worse. There's a fluttering in my stomach that can't just be nerves. I take another drink to calm myself. Gotta be careful here. Can't vomit on camera again. Gotta be suave. Gotta be cool. Gotta get this.

District 8 has a baby. Poor baby. No, no crying, no crying on tv gotta be cool.

Bailey is up there now. Talking about something boring. It's almost my turn. I'm not ready. Another drink, yes.

Bailey comes back and sits next to me, motions me up to the front. I stand up, feel wobbly. Not good. Start to walk up to the front. Suddenly my flask hits the floor. How did that get there? Everyone's pointing, but I gotta be cool about this. Can't blow it.

I bend over to pick up my flask when I feel it. My stomach flips over and tries to crawl out my throat. Oh no, not again. Nonononononononono….

Well, at least I feel better now.

_Michael Winchalski, 52, D8_

The boy from District 9 who just vomited all over the stage is now trying to seduce all of the women in the audience. What a peculiar strategy. I would guess that it might be difficult to seem alluring with vomit on your suit, but Alonzo soldiers on nevertheless. He's winking luridly at the crowd, while even Caesar looks horrified. Poor boy. Poor, idiot boy.

I must admit that I'm relieved this little incident took place after my own interview. I think I did reasonably well, trying to convey confidence and competence to the audience. After 10 years in the Peacekeeper Reserves, I think I managed. I was never called up; I only had to work District 8 perimeter security, a relatively easy detail. Still, I had to go through training and keep in shape, so I feel as prepared as possible for these Games.

And, of course, for my real mission, agreed to by both Nox and Joseph: to keep the kids alive. If either of the Guardians die, it will become my role to be Guardian. We are hoping that one of the pairs may make it intact, with my help. I will not come out of these Games alive, but that does not bother me. I will guard one or both of the children, with or without their guardian, until the final two, at which point I will kill myself and allow the child to be crowned Victor. I do not know what I will do if both children are still alive at that point. I supposed I will cross that bridge when I come to it, God help us all.

District 10 is being interviewed now, that ghastly affair with the drunk boy finally concluded. The girl is quietly determined, talking about how her father disappeared and her victory will be for him. The boy is horrifyingly helpless, crying plaintively about how he wants to see his parents. My heart melts for him, but I steel my resolve. I have enough people to protect already, I can't go adding any more.

The girl from 11 is forgettable. The boy seems possibly deranged. I'll need to watch out for him, he's a loose cannon. As the flibbertigibbet from 12 natters on, I review our plans for tomorrow. I will assess the arena, the Cornucopia, and the other tributes, and indicate with head our next move. If I nod my head down, I am going to attempt to get supplies from the Cornucopia. If I nod my head up, we will try to live off the land and supply our own weapons. Then I will indicate which direction we'll go to meet up. I'll run 50 yards in that direction, and start marking my progress with rocks and tree scratches. We've worked out a whole system so we can't lose each other in the arena. This will work.

Even as I'm working out the last detail, Caesar finishes up his interview, and we all stand and file out, many of the girls looking unsteady in their heels and the boy from 9 looking queasy again.

As I return to my room, saving a nod and reassuring smile for Nox, I begin to worry again. We've planned as thoroughly as possible, but no one can ever be really prepared for the arena.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow it all begins. And possibly ends.


	22. INTO THE ARENA

**A/N: Okay, I lied this isn't the bloodbath. But here's a fun little palate cleanser while I finish up that chapter. For anyone wondering, this is the same arena as **_**Catching Fire**_**, as there seemed no reason to break canon. I obviously do not own this arena. I'm also using this amazing illustration by alternatecoppa on DeviantArt as my map: gallery/#/d4liuxi. Enjoy!**

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO – INTO THE ARENA

_Joseph Hendrix, 29, D8 Guardian_

The man in white leans forward to inject something into my arm. "It's a tracker so we can know where you are in the arena at all times," he says. I nod; I'd always assumed something like this must be used. It's the next thing the medic pulls out that surprises me: a metal collar.

"You're the guardian?" the medic asks. I nod again, glancing at Tally asleep on the chair. "Great, let's get this on, then. We've already installed a tracker in your tribute's arm—" My tribute, that's what they're calling her? Not her name, not my daughter, just my tribute? "And if your trackers are ever more than 10 feet apart, this—" he holds up the collar, "will go off."

"Go off?" I ask. "What does that mean?" I'm not even sure I want to know.

The medic smiles. "You'll hear a beeping noise, at which point you will have 10 seconds to get within 10 feet of your tribute. If you don't the collar will explode."

My hand automatically goes to my neck, still bare of the collar. "And Tally?"

"Your tribute will not suffer any consequences of your actions." I sigh in relief. "Except, of course, that she will have lost her guardian and will be at the mercy of the other tributes."

_Carissa Martin, 15, D10_

Maewyn helps me onto the launch pad, to get ready for the ascent into the arena. I feel my chest contracting into my lungs and I have trouble breathing. I could be dead in five minutes.

"Are you okay, dear?" asks Maewyn. "Would you like some water?" I always thought it was the stylists who were with their tributes in their last minutes before the arena, but I suppose I could have been mistaken. Anyway, I like Maewyn better than that stupid stylist who almost caught me on fire, so this is probably better.

"Sure," I say. "Water would be great."

Maewyn walks across the room to rap on the door. It opens an Avox comes in with my water. I stare at him. I can't believe it. It's my dad. My _dad_! An Avox! I start to run toward him, but at that moment the shields come up around the launch pad, locking me out.

"Daddy! Daddy!" I scream, pounding my fists against the unyielding walls. He shakes his head at me as the platform starts rising. "Daddy! Daddddddyyyyy!"

My last sight is of my father soundlessly weeping on the floor and Maewyn with a look of pity in her eyes. She knew. The bitch knew. I was set up.

_Nox Evermore, 16, D3_

I'm kneeling on the platform, holding tightly to Barry's hand, trying to soothe him as the glass walls of the cylinder slide up around me and the launch pad begins to lift. I have to admit that I'm a little worried. This plate is really not meant for two people, and Barry is squirming a lot. I'm hit by a wall of light as the plate clears the surface: Bright sunlight glinting off the cornucopia and reflected in the water. The water? Yes, we're standing in the middle of the ocean, afloat on our plates. This is not good, _not good_. I see that there is land: an island for the cornucopia, which we circle, and, circling behind us, the arena. We just have to get there.

I scan around the plates around me, looking for Michael. He's almost directly across from me, the light splintering off the water and obscuring my view of him. Still he manages to catch my eye, first nodding down, then to his left. I look in the direction he indicated, seeing only trees. But I feel some relief, knowing we have a plan.

Barry is squirming harder. I've been trying to take in the arena and haven't been counting down the seconds until we can move. I estimate we have half a minute to go. I have to keep him still for 30 more seconds, and then worry about swimming.

He doesn't want to stay still, though. He's _so_ heavy. I put him on the plate, and, with weird toddler speed, he crawls toward the edge of the plate.

"No!" I yell. The other tributes are staring at me now, I've become a target to them but I don't care. I bend over to scoop Barry back onto the plate and into my arms, but it's too late. He's tumbled into the water.

And set off the mines.


	23. THERE WILL BE BLOOD

**A/N: Here it is, finally! The Bloodbath! It's been surprising to me, given how bloodthirsty I am as a reader, how difficult it is to kill off my own characters. But never fear, I sucked it up and did it! I hope you guys enjoy, I for one am very glad to finally be in the arena! Also, for those who don't know, I've started another fic, WEAK, that I'd love y'all to check out and review. And of course, review this one, too!**

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE – THERE WILL BE BLOOD

_Bailey Cleaver, 13, D9_

*BOOM*

At first I think it's the gong signaling the start of the games, the time to start running for my life. But it's too loud, the sound echoing around and around this weird arena. Plus there's … something … raining down on me. It's red, and warm. Blood. And then a hand falls in the water in front of me and I realize that it belongs to one of the tributes. Someone set off the explosives under their plate. I look to my left, but all I see are stunned faces. I look to my right, and there it is. The space where a tribute once stood. The tributes to either side are absolutely soaked in blood and look horrorstruck.

The gong sounds, but I can't move. I'm still trying to process what happened, trying to figure everything out. I look up to see Cashmere from District 1 already at the Cornucopia, ready to stab a tribute, maybe the boy from 10, as he tries to swim away. Her spear is so big, and wielded with so much force, that the boy's head comes right off. It falls in the water and floats toward me.

It's too much. The breakfast that I forced down in the Launch Room, the one designed to keep me from starving, starts to crawl its way up my throat. I need to get out of here. I need to stop standing like an idiot. But I can't. I double over and feel the bile stinging as it comes up my throat. I vomit three times into the water, unable to hold back. My eyes are watering when I finish and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

OK. I can do this. I just need to get off this plate and into the woods behind me. I have a plan. I can master it.

I look up, ready to act, only to see an ax hurtling at my face and the grinning, ghoulish visage of the boy from District 2 behind it. Oops.

_Amaranth Blaise, 14, D7_

I know the Gamemakers did this on purpose, putting my plate next to his. None of the other tributes are anywhere near their district partners, but here I am right next to the man I hate most in the world.

I barely even notice when the plate on the other side of me blows up, covering me in blood and guts. All I can do is stare at Mayor Robert Hardwick. Still, I am able to wrench my eyes away, find Beatrix on her plate, diagonal from me. I can see the worry in her eyes, the stress in her stooped, fragile figure, but I nod and smile at her, trying to be reassuring. I will stick to the plan.

But then, as the gong sounds to start the Games, I make the mistake of looking at the Mayor. The person who ruined my childhood, and my district. The cruel overlord of District 7. And he waggles his eyebrows at me. And grins. And then—he winks.

I don't know what it is about that wink but I just—lose it. My hatred consumes me, and, without thinking, I leap off my place, across the distance between us and knock him into the water.

I have no weapons, no plan. I hear Beatrix shriek, a long drawn out "No!" before I hit the water and hear nothing. My fingers are scrabbling at the Mayor's face, trying to scratch his eyes out. But then I feel his strong hands around my neck, simultaneously tightening and pushing me under. I manage to take one struggling breath before the water closes over my head. But I somehow doubt it will be enough.

_Lilah Rocas, 18, D12_

The gong sounds and I immediately dive into the water, thankful that I used the training facilities to teach myself how to swim. The other tributes laughed at me, of course, but it only helped with my overall strategy.

They think I'm stupid. They think I'm silly, flighty, a flibbertigibbet. That's why no one will care when I hit the Cornucopia. They'll let me escape because they think I'm not a threat. Plus, I'm fast. I'll be in and out before they know it.

No one knows my strategy, not even Katniss. It'll be a total surprise. I'll be the new Johanna Mason. I get out of the water, running for the roll of knives I see on the ground behind the tail of the Cornucopia. A weapon and some supplies, that's all I need.

As I scoop up the knives, I hear a cry behind me. I turn to face the scrawny girl from 4. "Those are mine!" she yells. "My knives!" She looks enraged, and for a second I'm surprised she caught up with me. But District 4, of course. Of course she can swim. She rushes me, knocking me down, kneeling on my chest. and taking the knives from my hand.

I start crying on cue. "Don't hurt me, please!" Play innocent. Play silly.

"Don't tell me what to do," she says quietly, all signs of anger gone. This girl is a psychopath. She pulls out a knife and my tears start for real as she slowly cuts into my skin.

Around me I hear fighting, yells, screams, but the sounds are dimming.

Maybe my strategy wasn't so great after all.

_Abby Smith, 16, D2_

My fellow Careers have put me on guard duty, trying to keep tributes from getting anything out of the Cornucopia. I know they've only given it to me because they think I can't handle the Bloodbath, but honestly I'm fine with it. Watching the little toddler from 3 get blown up has left me slightly queasy, and standing with a sword by the mouth of the Cornucopia is about all I can handle.

Stand. Guard. Watch…

Watch Cashmere lop off the head of the crying boy from 10.

Watch Julius hurl an axe into the face of the girl from 9.

Watch most of the tributes swim away from the Cornucopia into the relative safety—and starvation—of the forests behind them. This setup is a godsend for those tributes fast enough to realize it—while the Careers waste time getting to the Cornucopia and snagging weapons, the tributes can be fleeing to the wilderness. It's only those slow enough—or scared enough—who are falling prey to the Bloodbath.

Or those who are brave enough. Before my eyes, the military man from 8 rises out of the sea. He grabs a knife from the sand in front of me before I have time to react. He throws it at me and I duck, and by the time I recover he's scooped up a bunch of supplies from the Cornucopia, including a backpack bursting with supplies. Cursing, I swing my sword around to face him, challenge him.

The man runs at me, taking me off guard. He barrels into me, knocking me flat on my back. I feel the wind rush out of my lungs and can only stare at the sky, fighting for air as the man from 8 takes my sword. He holds it above me, preparing to kill, but then shakes his head.

"No," he says quietly. "No, not this early." Turning from my prone body, he sprints to the nearest spoke heading off the island, hiking up his backpack and using my—now his—sword to warn off any challengers. In a moment, he's gone, disappeared into the jungle.

I'm going to catch hell for letting him go, I know it.

With my first direct encounter over, and the Bloodbath in general winding down, I circle to the backside of the Cornucopia to see that Rosemary has already taken down a tribute—the flighty girl from 12 lies motionless in the sand, covered in gashes and blood. Her sightless eyes stare accusingly at me and for the first time I feel a twinge of horror. I'm in the arena. I'm in the Hunger Games. I almost died. I almost killed someone. What am I doing here? What was I thinking?

I look around me some more, trying to take toll, take stock, form some sort of coherent picture. There are three bodies floating face down in the water, one dead in the sand by the Cornucopia. There's a space where a plate wired with mines once stood, and a variety of tributes now spattered with bits of Nox & Barry. Four tributes dead. Only four. Not good, although this setup was not conducive to an extended bloodbath. I wonder why.

That's when I hear a scream, and turn, and find that letting the man from 8 get away will be the absolute least of my worries.

_Cashmere Tiberius, 26, D1_

It feels good to be back in the action again. To be fighting, mindlessly fighting, this time with my brother at my back. It doesn't really bother me that there have been few deaths in the Bloodbath, and that some of those kills weren't even by my alliance. This arena is wide open. With the stars above me and my brother beside me, I am more than happy to spend the time tracking down tributes. It will be pure, uncomplicated. There's nothing quite like being in the arena again.

Still, there's something niggling at me. I watched the man from 7 drown his district partner—silly girl leapt at him without a weapon, what did she think would happen?—but I haven't seen him since. I turn to Gloss, and tell him what I saw, but he laughs.

"Coward probably swam away into the forest." Gloss shrugs, clearly caring very little about the fate of the man from 7. Still, it bothers me. After what happened in the Training Center, it doesn't seem likely that the Mayor would just give up without a fight. But maybe he's right. Just one more tribute to track down in the forests.

With the fighting ended, we split up to circle the island and take inventory of our supplies. Gloss, Rosemary, and Julius all seem happy with the outcome of the bloodbath, but Abby looks less so. I'm about to head over to talk to her when I hear a commotion on the other side of the Cornucopia.

I head over there at a run and round the golden tail just in time to see a dripping wet Mayor Hardwick shove a sword all the way through my brother. Gloss stands with a shocked look on his face and then slowly crumples. The Mayor shoots me a triumphant look and takes off running down one of the spokes.

Shock sets into my system as I process the fact that my brother is dead. As if to cement that idea the Gamemakers finally set off the cannons from the Bloodbath. As the booms roll over my head, seven of them total, one right after the other, I know the last one is for my darling baby brother. Gloss, who teased me. Gloss, who was supposed to keep me safe while I kept safe. Gloss, who I abandoned, and it cost him his life. Gloss, Gloss, Gloss. The last good thing left. Gloss.

All I can do is scream.


	24. THE HUNGOVER GAMES

**A/N: Yay, new chapter! This is mostly set up, unfortunately, but we do learn the identity of one of the fallen tributes. And a mystery! Also, I'm generally against romance in the arena, but Jasmine and Robert just tug my heartstrings…not really. It's supposed to be creepy and weird and exploitative, which is the only kind of relationship I could understand happening in the Games. And yes, I partially created the character of Alonzo so I could use this chapter title **** Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy! Please review!**

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR – THE HUNGOVER GAMES

_Quartz Contour, 17, D12_

I was doing okay. Really, I was. I made it out of the bloodbath with a minimum of distress, mostly by closing my eyes and shutting everything out. I almost lost it when the mines went off, but luckily I kept it together.

Because, like I said, I was okay for awhile. And then I found the body.

That was bad. It was technically still during the bloodbath—the cannons hadn't gone off yet, anyway—and I guess that's why the body hadn't been removed yet. But—all the Careers are still by the Cornucopia. I know they are, I looked back. And this body wasn't even on the beach—it was inside the forest. So it wasn't a Career kill. It was one of the rest of us.

I mean, I know that non-Careers win the Games. I watched Katniss do it last year, and I'm hoping to do it myself. But most non-Careers win by hiding, skulking, stealing, and sabotage. Non-Career Victors tend to have low body counts on their kill lists. But I saw that body—there's a non-Career tribute out there who is willing to kill.

Bare handed.

That was definitely the worst part. The dead tribute was Arthur from District 6, who seemed pretty harmless. His neck was snapped, a look of surprise on his face. And his glasses were torn off his face, their frames broken in half and the lenses crushed.

I left my own little contribution to the scene: a pile of vomit. If I'm not careful, I'll be as bad as the drunkard from 9.

I was about to leave the body and go into the woods when I realized that that's the way the killer went, so I reversed and ran along the beach to a different section.

And that's where I've been ever since. Hiding, in the woods, in a tree. I've seen a few tributes walk or run by under me, but I'm keeping quiet. I'm staying out of it.

_Alonzo Alves, 18, D9_

I guess my mentor was right; I'm glad he took the wine away from me last night, although I sure do wish I could have some now. Take the edge off. Still, I only made it out of the blood bath by keeping my wits about me. I guess it's good there's no booze in the arena.

It's just as I'm thinking this that a silver parachute drops through the trees. It lands softly beside me, revealing—yes! Three bottles of beer! Just enough to take the edge off. I look up at the sky, knowing Erick will see, and mouth "Thank you" at him. I tuck two bottles into the pack I managed to stumble off with, and open the third. I'm secure enough in this tree, and everyone will be recovering from the bloodbath. Or dead. This is probably the best possible time for a beer and a nap. Gotta be prepared for whatever's coming.

Yup. Prepparred. I'lll bee prepared noo mattttr wha. I'mma take this game. I'mma win! I'mma winner!...

_Jasmine Juneberry, 15, D11_

The cannons start to boom, signaling the end of the bloodbath, and I keep count on my fingers as they sound. 1, 2, 3… all the way up to seven. Seven cannons for seven fallen tributes. As the boom of the last cannon rolls away, my ally strolls up.

"Hi, May… I mean Robert," I stammer. He told me to call him Robert, but it's hard for me. Still, our relationship has come a long way in just a few days. As if he read my mind, at that moment Robert appears out of the trees.

He whistles the notes I taught him—the notes that became famous last year after Katniss and Rue used them—telling me that no one's following him and it's safe to come down. I shimmy out of my tree, and show Robert the nuts and berries I've collected while he's been gone.

"So what happened?" I asked. I'd fled the bloodbath without even looking, trusting Robert to meet me. I know my sister was probably cursing me for it; she's been opposed to my alliance since the moment I told her about it. But I was right. I did exactly what Robert told me to do: turned around 180 degrees and went in a straight line. I can't swim well, but my belt kept me afloat, and I made it to the beach before anyone noticed.

I followed Robert's instructions, leaving signs that only he knows to show where I'd gone to hide. I climbed up a tree and have been here ever since. Now that he's here, I feel safe for the first time since the launch room.

"Oh, you know, general bloodbath stuff. Death, destruction, whatever." He smiles at me, and pulls off the backpack he's wearing, opening it to show the supplies and weapons he'd collected. There's quite a lot of stuff—he must have been in the thick of things.

"Did you… you know, kill anyone?" I ask softly, afraid to hear the answer. When we'd discussed our strategy for the bloodbath, and Robert had agreed to go in, he'd assured me that he'd only kill if he were attacked, only for survival.

"Honey," he'd said, stroking my hair, "You know I don't like these Games any more than you do, but you have to know that I might have to kill. Don't hate me for wanting to protect you, love."

But now he smiles at me. "No, baby," he says. "I didn't have to kill anyone. They were all so preoccupied with their own fights that I just slipped right by them. No violence, no killing." Again he strokes my hair, then moves farther down to my collarbones.

"I think," he whispers softly into my ears, sending shivers down my spine, "that this deserves a celebration."

He leans down and kisses me, scooping me into his arms and laying me on the grass at the bottom of the tree. I melt into him, and give myself up to him.

_Caela Brandon, 19, D6_

When I hear the anthem start up, I crawl out of the underbrush I've hidden in to watch the sky. I still haven't found Arthur, and I want to reassure myself that he's still alive, still out there somewhere with a plan for me.

As the anthem closes, the first name and face to appear is, shockingly, Gloss from 1. My mind reels and I miss the next face, but it doesn't matter, because I see it. Him. Arthur, his face lighting up the sky, telling me that there's no way out for me now.

I crawl back into my hole, not caring about who else would show up in the sky tonight. Without Arthur, I'm lost. I'd counted on him—depended on him—to help me out. I start to cry, big, gulping sobs that wrack my body and cause the foliage covering me to shudder. If anyone were around, the moving shrubbery might reveal my location, but everyone else is still watching the sky, I can count on it.

Hopeless, helpless, ready to give up but not ready to die, I hug myself and, without meaning to, drop off to sleep. In the morning, maybe I can find another ally.

_Joseph Hendrix, 29, D8_

Tally and I are hidden in a tree, and I can't stop shaking. It's only been half a day since the Games began, and already all of my plans are falling apart. A third of our alliance is dead. Barry and Nox… We lost a valuable player, and I can't find Michael, and it's all just coming down around me. Nox was the one who was going to tell me where to meet Michael, and without her, I'm lost. Michael was all the way across the Cornucopia from me—which is why I needed Nox—and when the gong rang, I didn't even look, I just ran.

After all our plans, after all our strategies, it's down to just me and Tally. As night falls, I hear the opening chords of Panem's anthem, and crawl farther down my branch to be able to see the skies, to see the fallen tributes.

I'm expecting to see Barry and Nox's faces first, so when I see Gloss from District 1, the shock is so great I almost fall out of my tree. Sure, there are often years where the full Career pack doesn't make it out of the bloodbath, but to have such a titan of a tribute taken out so early… it boggles the mind.

Barry and Nox are the next people to show up, their faces side by side in the sky. Next is the man with the glasses from District 6, so the rest of the Careers, the old woman from 3, and that fat boy all made it out, along with Remy. Amaranth from District 7 is next, followed by Bailey from 9. Fred, the 10-year-old from District 10 follows, and the nightly recap closes with Lilah, that pretty, flighty girl from 12. Seven tributes dead, plus Nox. A light bloodbath, but the Quarter Quell will surely have more surprises in store for us.

Well, at least I know now that Michael is alive, and he knows the same about me. That's one good thing. Another is that Tally hasn't woken up at all yet. Still, I'm virtually alone, with no weapons, and no way to find my remaining ally. Unsettled, I crawl on my branch back to the trunk, and try to make myself comfortable. I try to stay awake, but my eyes keep closing on their own.

I wake late in the night when a gigantic lightning bolt hits a tree further in the arena, beginning a fire storm raining down on me.


	25. BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

**A/N: Another day, another chapter. This was going to be longer, but I liked the way it ended. Just a quick look at what's going on in the Career pack, and checking in with a tribute or two. I'm half writing this story by the seat of my pants, and half getting it laid out in advance, so your input definitely matters! So just R/R and I hope you enjoy!**

CHAPTER 25 – BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO

_Julius Spillers, 17, D2_

I'm on guard when the lightning strikes. I'm pacing back and forth in front of the mouth of the Cornucopia, so my back is turned when it starts. I see a flash of light and whip around. There's a lightning storm illuminating the arena, oddly contained in one section of the forest.

I stare at it for a bit, mesmerized by the beauty, before realizing that this is probably something the rest of my alliance will want to know about. I shake awake Abby, Devin, and Rosemary first, hesitating before I get to Cashmere. She's on the other side of the Cornucopia, out of sight of the rest of us. She's been mostly unresponsive since Gloss died, sitting against the Cornucopia with her sword in her lap, staring unseeing into the arena. It's spooky. She held Gloss's body for so long the hovercraft had to physically remove it from her grip. I think she's lost it, and I don't know how useful she'll be with this new development.

After a quick consultation with the rest of the Careers, we decide to leave her asleep.

Instead, without her or Gloss to lead us, we just watch the lightning, awed and uncertain how to handle it. In fact, that's more or less what's been happening since Gloss's death. We haven't gone hunting, even though the day and night following the bloodbath is the best time for it, before allies have found each other and strategies been thought up.

I wanted to get on it immediately. As soon as Gloss was dead, I knew we needed to go hunting, to start killing and put the fear of god into the hearts of the other tributes. Once they saw Our Glorious Leader's face in the sky, they'll stop being scared of us, and we can't allow that.

But nooooo, Devin and Abby wanted to be cautious, wanted to wait for Cashmere to recover before we did anything. And Devin said he was our new leader because he's the oldest. And Abby looked fawningly up at him and agreed. I bet they're screwing. Assholes. Rosemary's with me, of course, but she's just a kid and what does she know?

And now there's some sort of electrical storm, and I bet the stupid arena kills more tributes than the Career pack. Absolutely unacceptable.

So while everyone else is standing around watching, doing nothing, I decide to go wake up Cashmere and get her to make a decision. I bet she'll be on my die, and then it'll be 3-2 and we can go kill some people. And if she disagrees—I'll kill her. Simple.

But it turns out not to matter, because when I get to Cashmere's sleeping bag, it's empty. She's gone.

_Cashmere Tiberius, 26, D1_

I hike through the woods, trying to get my bearings and figure out a plan, but my mind keep clouding over and all I can think is _Gloss is gone_. It's like there's an emptiness inside. I though nothing could be worse than my first arena. I thought going in with my brother would make for the best Games ever. I thought if he didn't make it out, it would be at the end. I tried not to think about how only one of us could win. It was a problem for another day. But another day has come.

Blindly, I flail through branches and thickets. I hear a noise and stop still, my heart pounding. There's a tribute on the other side of the tree, humming to himself. I debate killing him, but decide to hold my fire to assess the threat level. I'm not the Career I once was. I skirt around, climbing a nearby tree in silence to better see this tribute. It's the boy from 11, rearranging twigs, humming and rocking to himself. I've always wondered if his apparent stupidity and insanity was an act or a reality. But I don't have time to figure it out.

Behind me, I hear a crack of lightning and I whirl to watch part of the arena catch on fire. I freeze on my branch to see if this new threat will affect me. I don't need this, and bet this means that my former allies will soon discover that I'm missing—and that I've taken a hefty portion of their supplies with me.

I seem to be safe, but the effect on the boy from 11 is instantaneous. His head comes up, his nostrils flare to catch some scent I can't detect, and he looks directly into the inferno—and right at me. But he doesn't seem to see me, his eyes wide and crackling with reflected flames.

He stands up effortlessly, going from a sitting position to a run almost seamlessly, heading directly into the lightning storm. I imagine this is the last I, or anyone, will see of him. I shrug and shimmy down the tree, continuing my circular trek around the arena.

Soon, my boot thunks against something hard, and I look down. It's a wine bottle. Why is there a bottle of wine in the arena? Slowly I realize that there are several bottles littering the ground. What's going on? I hear a high pitched giggle and look up to see a tribute perched in a tree above me, pointing something at me.

For a second my heart stops in my chest and I think that it's all over for me.

But then I realize it's the tribute from District 9, and what he's holding is a bottle of wine. He giggles again, a most unpleasant sound.

"Wanna sip?" he shrieks. "C'mon up! We can have a drink, and then if you're willing, we can have a goooood time!" He winks luridly at me and bursts into more high pitched laughter.

He's still laughing maniacally when I raise my crossbow at him. He's still laughing when I start to pull the trigger.

And then I fire, and the loon falls out of the tree, his laughter silenced. Sweet, sweet silence.


	26. DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

**A/N: Whew, another one done. Initially I wanted this chapter to wrap up everyone's locations and doings, but thematically it makes more sense to split into two chapters. So, sorry about that. But this chapter should catch you up on a lot of what everyone's doing, and there's even some bloodshed. Enjoy & R/R please!**

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX – DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

_Reed Florian, 25, D11. 1 a.m._

I am rushing toward the lightning, watching the fire grow and grow and consume and consume and it is so beautiful. But before I get there, it stops. No more lightning, no more fire.

I stare stupidly at the place where once there was so much beauty, now dark. Then something hits me on the top of the head, like a very heavy rain drop. Then another, and another, until there falls around me a choking rain. It is impossible to see, difficult to breathe. I stumble, falling forward onto a tree trunk, scraping my hands and bruising my knees. I drop to the ground and crawl forward until suddenly I am outside the rain.

It is clear and I can see again. I look down to find that I am covered in blood. I look over, and there's a line where the blood rain stops. Like the lightning, the rain is confined only to a certain part of the arena. Odd.

Still, I'm out of the rain, and there seems to be no real danger, and I can only hope that the lightning might return. I climb a tree and dream of fire.

_Remy Tennant, 19, D5, 4 a.m._

I have been travelling through these woods for hours now, and I have seen no one. I have heard strange things coming from other sections of the arena, but nothing has bothered me. I'm beginning to wonder if this is all just too easy.

Also, I am exhausted. I haven't slept yet, though it's been hours since the last cannon sounded, which must have been around midnight. I don't know who died, but I can't seem to muster any real feelings about their demise, whoever they are. Just one more tribute out of the arena.

I have no allies, which seemed like a good move at the time, but now, on no sleep, keyed up for fear at any moment of an attack, I feel foolish. I want to sleep, but am scared. Without someone to guard my back, I can't quiet my mind long enough to rest. I tried, but it since it seems impossible, I elected to simply roam the arena, hoping to map my surroundings, at least. Uncle Ted must have approved of my plan since he sent me water.

Suddenly I hear the snap of a twig and I duck behind a tree. Finally, for the first time since I left the bloodbath more than 12 hours ago, I'm going to see another living person. The question of whether or not we'll both remain living after this meeting is yet to be determined.

I spin around from behind the tree, baring the large branch I've found to use as a weapon. The tribute on the other side of the tree stands stock still, shocked. She didn't know I was there. She falls back onto the forest floor, looking wearied.

"Okay," she says. "I give up. You can kill me."

I raise my branch, but then lower it. Am I really going to club this girl to death? Is this who I am?

"No," I say. "I don't want to kill you. How about we become allies? I'm Remy, District 5."

She looks at me warily, not sure of my intentions. Fair enough. I hold out a hand to help her up, and then pass her the water Uncle Ted sent as a sign to cement our alliance.

"Carissa," she says, drinking deeply from the water. "District 10."

The question seems to stand between us: What next?

"Okay," I say, "Let's get off the floor and somewhere safe, maybe get some sleep." She agrees, and we climb the nearest tree and make a nest in the branches. I am reminded suddenly and vividly of last year's games and the alliance between Katniss and Rue. But both of us are older, smarter, more capable. This could be a great thing, really.

We draw for who will take the first shift on guard, and who gets to sleep. I lose and watch Carissa fall immediately into a deep sleep. I watch and wait until it's my turn to finally, finally, sleep a bit.

_Beatrix Hopper, 87, D3, 6:45 a.m._

I am still hobbling along, half reveling in the fact that I'm still alive, half wondering how long that can still be true. My ally is dead. I have no water and have barely slept in the last day. Sometimes I wonder if I should just end it myself and save everyone the trouble. But I won't, of course. By the time you're my age, you can't just give up.

So here I am. I sit down for a minute or two to rest my weary bones. I close my eyes briefly, but can't allow myself to fall asleep. That's the fastest way to die, to sleep in the open. My eyes pop back open when I hear some rustling above me. I look up and in the tree directly opposite me I see a pair of eyes glinting with reflected moonlight.

I look directly into those eyes and smile. Slowly, a face emerges from the foliage, followed by the top half of a body. Whichever tribute this is, she knows I'm not a threat. How could I be? Some tributes pretend to be helpless as a strategy. Some tributes really are helpless.

"Hi, bunny," I say softly, pretending for a minutes this is one of my granddaughters or my late lamented ally.

"Hi," she replies, and I place her as Carissa from District 10.

"So," I say, just wanting to keep her talking, to stop the silence for a little time. "How are your Games going?"

"Not bad," she says. "Found an ally. She's sleeping."

"That's good. Take good care of her. Take good care of yourself."

We chat a while longer, both of us glad for the company, but knowing that we need to keep moving, keep quiet, alert no one to our presence. Reluctantly, I steady myself with the branch I use as a walking stick.

As I start to move, though, I suddenly realize that I can't. I look down to see that the ground now covers my ankles, and I am sinking further still.

"Quicksand!" I cry, struggling to move. "Help me!" I look up to Carissa, the quicksand now up to my knees. I struggle to free myself and fall forward instead, the ground quickly covering my hands. Carissa simply looks at me, her eyes oddly flat. I continue to struggle, crying out to Carissa for help. She doesn't move and her ally never wakes. I wonder if she actually has an ally, and if that ally is still alive.

Then the quicksand covers my head and I have no more chances to think about anything.

_Michael Winchalski, 52, D8. 7:30 a.m._

As the day dawns around me, I consider my situation. There were 7 deaths in the bloodbath, and another two since the recap at sunset. Either of those two could have been Tally and Joe. And Joe could have died unannounced, as only Tally's death will "count" for the death toll. I don't even know if the people I'm searching for are even still alive, but I can't stop.

My own family is long gone, Tally and Joe are all that are left, and if they die, I don't know what I will do. What does a man have if everything he lives for is dead? In the Reserves, they all mocked me for thinking so much. "Brainer," they called me. I never fit in there. I spent my time at training wishing to return to Alesia and Yvonne, my wife and daughter. Maybe I made it too obvious that my heart wasn't in my service to Panem, because when I returned, my wife and daughter were both dead. A freak accident in the factories, they said. I don't know why my 2-year-old daughter would even be in the factory, and no one would tell me.

Just one of those things that happen, they said. Those things seem to happen a lot in the Districts of Panem. I have no doubt that my reaping was not an accident, and I can only hope that my disloyalty to the Capitol will not rub off on Tally and Joe.

So here I am, with a whole arsenal stolen from the Cornucopias and the Careers, and no one to fight against, no one to protect. Just one lonely ex-Peacekeeper. How do you find someone in this arena? Someone hiding, scared, and saddled with a baby he cannot leave and doesn't know how to protect?

Not knowing what else to do, I take stock of and repack all my supplies, shoulder the sword I took from the girl from 2, and set off again, searching for Joe and Tally, if they're even still alive.

_Rosemary McHenry, 8, D4. 8 a.m._

I wish everyone would just get over the fact that Cashmere's gone and we could do something for once. It's been nonstop arguing since we found her empty sleeping bag, and it's very boring. Julian and I want to go hunt tributes like a proper Career pack. Devin wants to go find Cashmere and see if we can convince her to rejoin us. Abby doesn't seem to care but is agreeing with Devin on everything. Boring. Devin keeps insisting that he's the leader and we have to do what he wants. He's stupid. He's not the leader. Gloss was but Gloss is dead. Then Cashmere was but Cashmere left. Devin can't make me do anything.

In fact, no one can make me do anything. Julian and I are the only ones who've killed anyone. We should be the leaders. Yep.

"HEY GUYS!" I yell, wishing my voice were louder. "HEY! I'M GOING TO HUNT TRIBUTES AND YOU CAN'T STOP ME!"

That shuts everyone up. They all turn to stare at me. I shrug, leaning my sword against the ground. "What?" I demand. "I am!"

Devin shrugs. "Okay, fine. I give up. Julian, you and Rosemary go hunting. If you find Cashmere, try to get her back. Abby and I will stay behind and guard the Cornucopia."

Guard it from what? I start to say. There's nothing here to guard. The man from 8 and Cashmere took almost everything. But a look from Julian tells me to keep my mouth shut.

"C'mon, Rosie," he says. He knows I hate the name Rosie. "Let's go."

Oh well, nothing really matters. We're finally, finally, finally going hunting. Watch out, little tributes. Ready or not, here I come!

_Back in the Capitol…_

Wow, what an exciting start to the Games! I'm _so_ glad I got up early to watch the recap before school! At this rate, I bet we won't even have to go into school tomorrow, they always cancel it when the Games get really good. Oh man, I knew this year's Quell was going to be really really good. I can't wait to talk to Alisa about it at school. I'm having her over this afternoon so we can watch those recaps together. It sucks when things happen at night or during school. Why can't the tributes save their kills until I can watch them?

Still, that's why they make the recaps during the boring parts. And I know they're saving something up for today. They still haven't told us who killed the man from 6. Normally we know all the kills, so I wonder what they're doing.

But it's been exciting. I'm_ so _glad we watched the Bloodbath at school. Who would've thought that Gloss, of all people, would die so soon? And the little boy being blown up? I was almost sad about that, but it was so, so cool. That was the boys' favorite part. And now, in the recap, Carissa just watching the old lady die? That was creepy. It makes me want to get together some money to send to Remy to help her out, but I already spent all my money to send to Gloss. Stupid. At least Alisa did the same thing. My parents were right, there really is nothing quite like a Quell.

Slowly the screen in front of me fades to black and a map of the arena comes up with all the tributes' locations marked on it. The announcer's voice rolls out:

"After a long night, tensions in the Career pack continue to rise and they prepare to go on the hunt. Alliances have been forged and broken, and some tributes are still hiding their true intentions. Up next: A killer will be revealed!"

Ooooooh, _why _do I have to go to school?


	27. INGLORIOUS BASTARDS

_A/N: Another day, another chapter. And honestly, I've been waiting a long time to write this. The plot thickens. Enjoy and please read and review!_

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN – INGLORIOUS BASTARDS

_Harold Landers, 15, D5. 8 a.m._

The sky begins to lighten and puts an end to the first night in the arena. I'm pretty pleased with how it's gone so far, but I wish I could have done more. If only I could have gotten to that arrogant bastard from 7 instead of just the piddly little asshole from 6.

The way he looked at me when he saw me coming out of the trees. Like he pitied me. Me! Four-eyed little freak. "Want some help?" he asked me. "Want to join my alliance?" he asked me. He totally bought into my little act. Poor little fat boy. Fat blob of lard. Can't do anything. Can't be a threat. Ha ha if he threatens us we'll just roll him into the water. Ha ha ha. Well who's laughing now? Not the bloody asshole from 6. Not him, that's for sure.

I remember it clearly. After the gong hit, I'd headed to the forest as quickly as I could, ignoring everything that was going on around me. Let them kill each other. I'll have time enough for that later. The bloodbath was always going to be one of the most dangerous times for me, so my first priority was just getting out. But by the time I got to the tree line, I was winded. Maybe I should have worked a little harder at the training station, but it would have blown my cover. So instead I just hoped that no one would come across me and just sat at the base of the trees to get my wind back. I figured it would be okay—they're all too busy killing and dying and running.

But luck's as big a bitch as any other woman, and I got found by that happy asshole from 6. He gets all up in my face, saying, "Are you okay? Do you want to join my alliance? Did the Careers get you?" I guess he thought I was injured and not just fat and tired. Dickwad. Like I'd want to join his piddly alliance. But I said I would, and when he bent down to help me up I just—grabbed his head and twisted. It was easy. Just like the dogs at home. Just bigger. I thought maybe I'd feel something—sick, maybe, at ending a human life. Sadness. But I didn't. Thank god.

But it made me think. I've been by myself since then, just roaming through the jungle, and musing on how stupid and _nice_ everyone else in this arena is. I bet I can prey on their good will to get them to trust me. And then—I'm just one step closer to being a Victor. I'll have to avoid the Careers, of course. But it shouldn't be too hard. They're even stupider than everyone else. Brawns over brains and all that.

But for now, I'm just going to wait for some kind-hearted soul to come help me out…

_Mayor Robert Hardwick, 38, D7. 8:30 a.m._

Jasmine is asleep. Jasmine is always asleep. Or hungry. Or tired. Or sad. She's very annoying to be around, in fact, and even her dubious pleasures are beginning to bore me. The problem with the young, inexperienced ones is that they simply aren't very good. The first time is always fun, but training is tiresome and some of them, like young Jasmine here, simply don't catch on very fast. She is still devoted to me, of course, but she doesn't give me much in return. No real skills, which I'd counted on. Isn't that the point of these higher-district animals? That they know how to be hungry and can hunt and devise traps and things? Look at Katniss, or even Rue! And of course Jasmine's own sister is a Victor! I'd really thought I'd played my hand well, but instead I am stuck with a useless, helpless female with no assets, physically or otherwise.

I'm afraid it may be time to cut the apron strings. But perhaps I can persuade her to do better. Yes, perhaps I can salvage this alliance so it isn't a total waste of my time. She's a pretty enough thing, it would be a shame to throw her away so early in the competition, especially with most of the better looking girls already gone. I probably won't find anyone as pretty or pliable as Jasmine, and who knows how long these Games will last? Yes, it will certainly be better to give her a chance.

I reach over and shake her awake. "Hi, honey," I say gently, smiling. "Let's chat."

She rubs her eyes sleepily, looking like a child of 5 rather than an almost-woman of 15. Something that shouldn't excite me, but does. "Hmm?" she mumbles, still not fully awake. I almost want to slap her. We are in the arena! I want to shout as I knock the sleepy smile off her face. You need to go from sleeping to fully alert in a matter of seconds or you will die. But I don't, because I can't scare her yet. Maybe she can learn, maybe she can be useful to me. There's time enough for hitting later.

"Look, Jasmine, here's the thing. An alliance is like a marriage." I pause for a second and see her face turn hopefully up toward mine. For the love of god, the silly girl thinks I'm proposing to her. Of all the preposterous… I continue on quickly, obliterating her hope. "In a marriage, as in an alliance, both parties need to contribute something for it to work. When I invited you to join me, I thought you'd be bringing something to the table. But you're not. So this isn't a real marriage…"

She still just looks at me. Dumb cow. I slow down my speech in order to get it through her thick head. "Do… you… have… anything… to… offer… in… this… alliance…"

Still she stares at me, now with tears trickling down her cheeks. That's it. I'm done. I start packing up my supplies, intending to leave her to her fate, probably at the hands of either the Careers or the Gamemakers, but looking at her sitting there crying, something inside me just breaks. My heart, maybe. If I leave her like this, she'll probably follow me, bringing trouble on us both.

"Oh, baby girl," I croon, sitting next to her. "Oh, don't cry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." I hold her face, wipe away her tears, and lean down to kiss her.

Then I slide my knife deep into her heart. A cannon sounds and I lay her on the ground. Problem solved.

_Carissa Martin, 15, D10. 8:45 a.m._

It's been two hours since the old lady from 3 died, and Remy still sleeps beside me. It's probably time for me to wake her, to get going on this second day in the arena, the place where the Capitol will kill me. Maybe not personally, but the Capitol guides the hands of every murdering tribute. I know this better than anyone. How else could my father have ended up an Avox? I am doomed in this arena, I know it, but I do not know who it will be that takes me out. A Gamesmaker trap? A muttation? My own ally?

I look down at her, sleeping peacefully. Or so she wants me to believe. Maybe she's not asleep at all, maybe she's just waiting for me to turn my back so she can thrust a knife into it? That's all I will get in this arena: betrayal. Just like Maewen betrayed me, showing me my father before sending me to fight and die.

Yes, I'm sure Remy, my so-called ally and friend was sent here to kill me. She is probably getting signals from her mentor and sponsors about when exactly to end my life. I should end hers first. It would only be fair. Turn the tables on the Capitol and the tributes they send against me. A warning sign, yes. That'll show them. That'll show them all.

I dig through our packs to find the knife I know Remy is hiding, but it's not there. She's hidden it better than I thought. She's probably secreted it under her sleeping body. Yes, that's what I would do. She's a crafty one. I'm surprised she didn't kill me while I slept, take care of it last night. Perhaps she lacks the courage.

Well, I won't. I find instead the large branch she threatened me with last night, before she offered me her "friendship." I lift it over my head, preparing to bash her head in when a cannon booms through the arena, waking her. I quickly throw down my weapon. I will just have to make sure I never turn my back on her, and tonight I will try again.

_Caela Braden, 19, D6. 10 a.m._

I can feel despair, fatigue, loneliness, and hunger overwhelming me as I blunder through the forest. I have neither eaten nor slept nor had anything to drink since the bloodbath, and I haven't had a moment of peace since I saw Arthur's face in the sky last night. All the shapes around me are starting to blur. I have no purpose and no hope, but still I struggle on, unwilling to give up. I'm not sure why, but somehow I can't stand the idea that someone finds me in my sleep. If I am going to die, I want to see it.

Still, when I round a corner to see another tribute sitting under a tree, my heart gives a flip in my chest and I can't help but to let out a small scream. Great, now the Careers will know my location and come hunt me down, if this other tribute doesn't kill me first. I throw myself to the ground and lie there panting for several minutes before realizing that no one is storming over to slit my throat. Slowly, I start to get up, only to realize that the tribute I saw earlier is now standing over me.

I let out another small scream, but then realize it is only the fat boy from District 5. My heart starts to settle down into a more normal rhythm and I finally breathe again. The boy's face is stained by tears, and I'm sure his time in the arena so far has been a nightmare for him. He's done well to avoid the Careers as they will kill him immediately.

"Hi there," I say, my confidence returning now that I've found someone more vulnerable than me. "I'm Caela. District 6."

"Harold Landers," he replies, and I realize it's the first time I've heard him say anything. He's only ever cried. His voice is surprisingly, pleasantly deep. He continues, "I'm so glad I found someone else. I'm so glad it's not a Career!" On the last word, his voice wobbles and he once again bursts into tears.

I feel some strange sort of mothering instinct rising in me, and I hug as far around him as I can reach.

"There there," I murmur. "I'm here now. Let's go find some food, shall we?"

Immediately, his tears clear up. "Will you be my ally?" he asks pitifully, his childlike tone at odds with his baritone voice.

"Of course, Harold! We can help each other! Wouldn't you like that?"

He smiles widely. "There's nothing I would like better."


	28. A CAREER'S GUIDE TO HUNTING AND FISHING

**A/N: Whew, this one took a while. I knew what was supposed to happen in this chapter, but for some reason I just could not get it down on paper (er, computer screen). Still, I think it came out okay. Also I have a few more stories circulating in my brain that I'd like some tributes for. Please PM ONLY if you're interested in submitting. Hope y'all enjoy! R/R, please. Warning: Strong language.  
**

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT – A CAREER'S GUIDE TO HUNTING AND FISHING

_Abby Smith, 16, D2. 10:30 a.m._

Without Rosemary and Julius around, everything is much more peaceful. They marched off over an hour ago, and we've heard just one cannon in the time since. By my calculations, this means that there are still 13 other tributes left in the arena, and the death rate is slowing. As much as I hate the idea of hunting down tributes, I know it's the only way to get out of this arena, and Julius and Rosemary are the right people for the job.

Still, there's something weird about this arena. A bit ago, a huge wave crashed into a section of forest, but I could find no real cause for it. Still, the Cornucopia seems safe enough for now, and everything is beautifully quiet. I put down my sword and lean against the golden horn, enjoying the feel of its sun-soaked metal against my back. The light glints off the water, dazzling me, and my eyes begin to droop.

I am woken by a spear poking my neck.

It's just Devin, admonishing me for falling asleep during my watch. Luckily he's only annoyed, not mad, and he sits down beside me, laying his sword in the sand. "Look, Abby," he says, "I know it's pretty peaceful here, but there are some dangerous tributes out there, and any one of them could come make a play for the Cornucopia." I know he's talking about Cashmere, and maybe the Mayor, and I also know that he's right, but it's so hard to care when the sun is shining and the air is calm and the water looks so inviting.

Still, despite his words, he doesn't get up to patrol, but only leans against the Cornucopia, saying, "All this water reminds me of home."

I don't know how to reply to that, so I say nothing. All the killing and competition and ruthlessness in the arena reminds me of home, but not in any way that I miss. I don't want to say that, though. It'll piss off my district, who haven't sent me anything yet, and it'll piss off the Capitol, who want their tributes miserable in different ways than hating their home district. So instead I settle for, "Tell me about District 4."

Devin smiles, and begins to talk about his life at home, being out on the seas before the sun rises, hauling in fish after it's dark again, negotiating with the Capitol agents about how much was caught versus how much the Capitol thinks should have been caught that day. He talks about different kinds of fish and swimming in the waters of District 4, and it all sort of merges together in my head until his talking is merely a hum in the background.

As he talks, I watch him. His curly hair is sun bleached from years on the water, and his skin is tanned. His eyes are gray-blue like the water that helps him make his living, and overall I find it harder and harder to deny my attraction to him.

It's idiotic, of course. Even if he has the same feelings, we could never be together. Even in the best case scenario, only one of us comes out of this alive. Moreover, I've had a few boyfriends over the years, I've been in love, and this isn't love. This is lust and infatuation born out of the peculiar combination of terror and boredom that only occurs in the arena. But that doesn't stop me from wondering how soft his lips are, what kind of kisser he would be. As he keeps talking, I lean my head against his shoulder and drift off.

It's so peaceful here and now that it's hard to believe that there's any danger at all.

_Julius Spillers, 17, D2.12:30 p.m._

Fuck this fucking arena. I am stumbling through a lightning storm, dodging strikes left and right while Rosemary runs ahead of me. I think the Gamemakers are toying with me, because while I never seem to get hit, it's always a very close thing. Finally, finally, we seem to be out of the danger zone. But as I crash through a bush, a tribute suddenly springs out in front of me. His eyes are alight with an insane fervor and he's running full tilt into the fire storm. I wheel around to attack him, but he is already passed me and into the inferno.

Damn. The first tribute we've seen and I couldn't even kill him. I don't even know who it was, although Rosemary suggests it was the crazy boy from 11 because, "he loves fire." I don't even know how she knows this, but whatever. I listen for a cannon, but it never comes.

Rosemary sits down and leans against a tree, pouting. "I'm tired!" she says.

"Too bad," I reply. "This was your idea anyway."

"I know, but we've been walking forever and we haven't even seen any stupid tributes." She's a bloodthirsty little thing, but she's got a point. We've used up most of the water from the Cornucopia, and it's very tiring to be constantly thrashing through the jungle with no fighting. I can't imagine how the other tributes cope.

So I give in and we sit down, passing our last water bottle back in forth. Suddenly I feel a drop on my arm. Is it raining? On one hand, I hope so, because it will give us a chance to refill our bottles, but on the other hand, the other tributes will have the same opportunity. But it turns out not to matter, because when I look down at the droplet on my arm, it's thick and red. _That's not water_!

Rosemary is coming to the same conclusion. She shrieks and leaps up when a drop of blood hits her in the face. "Get it off me! Get it off me!" she screams, her hands flailing. I feel this is a bit of an overreaction. Still, the blood is falling faster and faster, a choking, blinding downpour, and I want to get out of here as soon as possible. I grab our supplies and weapons and start to move out.

But Rosemary's not cooperating. She's not screaming anymore, either. She's curled up in a ball on the ground, whimpering. I debate leaving her there, but I doubt she'll die of this, and I don't want her hunting me when it's over. So I carefully sheath my sword and pick her up, carrying her in my arms out of the falling blood. I walk with her for what seems like forever before it lets up, leaving us both wet, sticky, and red.

I set Rosemary down on the forest floor and wait for her to come around, which she does quickly now that blood is no longer falling from the sky. She whimpers and opens her eyes, looking for the first time like a scared girl of 8 and not a tiny bloodthirsty warrior. It occurs to me that I could kill her easily, but somehow I don't quite want to.

She sniffles. "I want to go home." She sounds tiny, frail.

"We can't go home," I reply. "But we can go back to the Cornucopia."

She brightens, and even though we've been hunting for only a few hours, and haven't fought a single tribute—by any account a failure of a hunting trip—I'm glad to be going back, too.

As we exit the forest onto the beach, I see the Cornucopia glinting gold against the water, and sitting on the island with it are Abby and Devin, talking and laughing. They look well-rested, healthy, happy. In an instant, my relief turns to anger. Then Abby leans her head against Devin's shoulder and my anger boils over into rage. We are out here in the forests dodging lightning and drowning in blood, thirsty, hungry, tired, sore, and Devin and Abby are making out! They are both barely Careers, neither have made a kill, and I think maybe this alliance has reached the end of its usefulness.

I look over as Rosemary, and she looks equally angry. I signal at her to return to the woods, out of sight.

I turn to face her, unsheathing my sword. "Something needs to be done."

_Devin Cod, 26, D4. 2:00 p.m._

I've been having a good time reminiscing with Abby, but when she leans over to kiss my cheek, I know what's happened. I've had girls falling in love with me for years. Of course. I'm young, fit, good looking. And I'm nice—always courteous, never trying to take advantage. But none of them notice exactly how polite I am to them, how I never try to steal a kiss or cop a feel. They think I'm bring a gentleman. But I just have no interest in that sort of thing.

Even if I were. Even if my heart quickened at Abby's big brown eyes and heart-shaped face, I wouldn't let myself. It's just a matter of luck that she—and all her sex—do nothing for me. Either way, I can't be distracted. I'm here to win, and nothing can get in the way of that. If I start having feelings for people—if I even start to develop a friendship, it will make it worse in the end.

I've been foolish, sitting here, enjoying the companionship and the sun and the sea. This isn't what I'm here for. Roughly, I push Abby aside and stand up. "I'm not here to make friends," I inform her. "Or anything else. Come on, let's guard."

For a while, we circle the Cornucopia, swords at the ready. Something strange is happening in the forests of the arena, but I can't quite get a grip on what it might be.

Otherwise it is deadly quiet and just as dull. Abby evidently agrees with me, speaking from the other side of the Cornucopia, for the first time since her attempt at romance. "God, it is boring out here."

"Hush," I tell her, but it's too late. Like a curse, tributes appear from the trees, running toward us. They are both covered in some sort of bright red liquid and carrying weapons. My heart seizes in my chest before I realize that it's only Julius and Rosemary, returning from their hunting trip. I suppose I'm so geared up from being on watch that I mistook them for enemies.

"Hey guys," I say, raising my sword, "How goes it? What happened?"

But neither of them pause or reply. Julius continues running, but Rosemary drops back, kneeling. An arrow flies by my head, shot by Rosemary, and I realize with a start that, for whatever reason, now we are enemies. Abby comes around the Cornucopia and stifles a small scream when she sees the apparitions approaching us.

"What—?" she asks.

"Julius and Rosemary," I reply. "Looks like this alliance is over." Another arrow comes flying, off the mark, but a confirmation of my words. Abby fumbles a knife from her belt and throws it, but it falls far short. Suddenly she screams as an arrow hits its mark, sprouting from her arm. Now Julius is upon us, and I raise my sword to clash with his. We work our way around the Cornucopia as Rosemary advances on Abby, dodging thrown knives and pausing to shoot. At the mouth of the Cornucopia, Julius outmaneuvers me and knocks my sword out of my hand. He swings his blade toward me, intending to make the killing blow, but I leap backward into the water, diving deep enough to avoid arrows and swords. He won't come after me now, this is my element.

I swim away, striking off diagonally from where I went in, hoping to confuse Julius if he tries to meet me at the beach. Survival. It's all about survival. I have no alliance, no food, no water, and only a puny knife, but I am alive. For now.

_Rosemary McHenry, 8, D4. 3:00 p.m._

I walk toward Abby, slowly, taking my time, continuing to shoot at her. My arrows aren't hitting anything, but that's okay. It's about fear. She's out of knives, and the rest of her weapons and supplies are in the mouth of the Cornucopia, where Julius is. She's gripping her arm where the arrow is, crying. Easy.

She starts crawling away toward one of the strips leading to the beach, and I shoot an arrow in front of her. She stops, still sobbing. What a waste of a Career. I kick her in the head and she falls back, her nose bleeding like her arm. Lovely, lovely blood. I sit on her chest and take out a knife. This is great. I haven't done this since that girl at the Bloodbath. She cried a lot. I wonder if Abby will, too? But after a few cuts, she's only whimpering. Boring. As I'm drawing the knife across her chest, Julius comes around the Cornucopia, swearing. He does that a lot.

"Fucking guy fucking swam off!"

I lower my knife. "Why don't you try to meet him at the beach?" I ask.

"Fucking did that. Fucking guy swam in a different fucking direction, man. By the time I got there, he'd run into the woods." He starts to hack at the sand on the beach in annoyance.

"Stop that. You're going to ruin the blade." It's a really nice sword, too. "Here, you can have Abby. I'm bored now. She's only—AAAAARGH!" I scream as Abby grabs my hand holding the knife and shoves it into my thigh. That really hurts! For a second, everything moves away and all I can feel is the pain, and before I know it, Abby's thrown me off her and started to run to the beach. I try to stand to go after her, but red stripes cloud my vision and I abruptly sit back down.

Julius is standing there, staring. "Go after her, stupid!" I yell. He starts to move but I already know it'll be too late. Abby's fast. Julian isn't. Still, I grab my bow and fire an arrow after her. It hits her in the leg and she stumbles before limping into the trees.

Julius hasn't moved. "Now what?" he says stupidly. As if to answer him, a silver parachute floats from the sky. It's got some sort of healing lotion in it, and I rub it on my leg.

"Now we eat, sleep, clean up, and go hunting again," I say. "Welcome to the New Careers."

_Cashmere Tiberius, 26, D1. 4:00 p.m._

Last night I heard my brother, calling to me in the wind. Now he comes again. His voice surrounds me, coming from the birds who share their tree with me. "Cashmere!" they cry. "Cashmere, how could you let me die?" On and on they yell at me, sometimes instead screaming wordlessly.

I know what it is. It's the jabberjays. I know it's not really him, and that's why I stay here. Hoping to hear his voice again. I ignore the traitorous words and focus on the sounds instead.

Soon, Gloss's voice starts whispering things to me. Telling me about the arena, about the clock, about the quadrants. I know everything that's happening. The Careers have broken up. The fat boy is a killer laying in wait for more victims. The girl from 10 found out her father is an avox and has gone psychopathically mad, plotting to destroy her ally. These jabberjays were designed as a trap to break the tributes down, but I have nothing left to lose, nowhere to go but up. Gloss whispers to me all the secrets of the Games. Even after death, my brother is my ally.

I sit in the tree, tears streaming down my face, until Gloss's voice fades and the arena is silent again. I sit, my weapons in my lap, and wait.


	29. ROCK-A-BYE BABY

**A/N: Another late chapter, sorry. And kind of a short one. It was going to be longer, but I realized that the next section will be better as its own chapter—but it's half written already, so at least there's that. Also, I'm starting another story that I need tributes for, so if y'all could check out "The Fourth Quarter Quell: Cage Match," review, and submit a tribute or two (by PM only, please), I'd really appreciate it! Thanks, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE – ROCK-A-BYE BABY

_Quartz Contour, 17, D12. 8:00 p.m._

When I hear the first strains of the Capitol anthem, I duck out of my hiding place in the underbrush to watch the sky. Only one death today, the same conclusion I'd reached by listening for cannons, but I wanted to know who it was. District 11, Jasmine. Too bad, I guess. She seemed nice enough, but nice doesn't win the Hunger Games. Courage, skill, and a lot of luck does. And a willingness to get your hands dirty never hurts.

As I'm turning away from the seal broadcast in the sky, ready to return to my hole in the ground, I hear a muffled sob. I pause. Do I want to investigate this? It could be a trap. It almost certainly is a trap. I should probably just go back to my hiding place, which has kept me safe for two days. On the other hand, two days of doing nothing has to be boring for the Gamemakers and audience. Something interesting must have been going on today, otherwise they would have introduced me to danger already. Even if the sobbing I hear is a trap, ignoring it will only bring on a new, possibly worse trap later on. Yes, perhaps cautiously investigating is my best option.

Slowly, quietly, I return to my hiding place, pick up the meager supplies I've acquired, and head deeper into the woods. I circle the sobbing, trying to find a good location to spy on the source of the sound. Careful is the name of the game here. I climb a tree agonizingly slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. Weaponless, surprise may be my one advantage.

Once I find a limb with a good view and height advantage, I creep along it, peering down. In the clearing below sits a girl covered in blood, crying as she tries to get an arrow out of her arm. With a start of alarm, I realize she's a Career—the girl from 2—and start to try to form a plan to get away from her. But after a second of reflection I realize that even if she was once a Career, it seems unlikely that she still is. She's alone, injured, and her alliance is nowhere to be found. Probably not a threat.

This changes my options significantly and I pause to review them. I could leave, help, or kill. If Leaving would be almost the same as killing, as the girl has her guard completely down. I could kill her, of course, but I have no weapons, and even a lone, injured Career is still a Career. Or I could help her. This would have the advantage of giving me an ally—a trained ally, to boot—and being interesting to the audience, meaning that I might have a moment of two of peace. She might turn on me, of course, but even I'm getting tired of hiding.

My mind made up to take the road more interesting, if more stupid, I skin down the tree to approach the ex-Career.

_Joe Hendrix, 29, D8. 10:00 p.m._

Tally fusses in my arms, and I try to calm her. We have to stay quiet. Below us, two Careers are crashing through the brush. But Tally is hungry, cold, tired, and won't cooperate with me. I've known this moment was coming—how could it not?—but it doesn't make it any easier. Luckily, I've spent the my time in the arena preparing for this. As the Careers look up, their eyes glinting with excitement as they see me and Tally in the tree.

Carefully, I take aim and start throwing my missiles into their upturned faces. I've spent most of today collected rocks and sharp pebbles, and using them to whittle twigs into darts. I'm hoping that if I put up enough of a fight, and stay out of sword range, maybe they will leave me alone as too much trouble. It is the best strategy I could come up with, without Michael and his supplies and weapons.

Unfortunately, my plan wasn't working. The little girl from 4, Rosemary, reaches behind her and pulls out a bow and my heart sinks. As she pulls back, taking careful aim, I try to scoot farther and farther back in the tree, to make a harder target. Tally begins to wail. I hold her, rocking, trying to soothe her, quiet her, and continue to get away from the arrow nocked against Rosemary's bow. Not good, this is not good.

That's when I hear a crashing in the underbrush and my long lost ally Michael bursts out of the trees.

And also when Rosemary releases the arrow. It buries itself in my calf and I lose my balance and fall out of the tree.

_Michael Winchalski, 52, D8. 10:00 p.m._

I've been trying to find Joe and Tally for two days, since we got out of the bloodbath. And I finally found them. Too late. I must have been circling them for ages, but it was only once Tally started yelling that I was able to track them down, just in time to see Joe fall out of the tree. Luckily he didn't fall far, but I could see the panic in his eyes. I did my part by advancing on the girl with the bow and arrow. She backed off, but smiled and pulled out her own small sword. I went into attack mode, as much as it hurt me to fight with such a tiny child. Still, I've seen her in action, what she did to that poor girl from 12, so my conscience doesn't do more than twinge. My job is to protect Joe and Tally.

As Rosemary engages with me, I can see Joe frantically trying to climb back up the tree to get to Tally, but the big District 2 boy keeps grabbing his legs and pulling him back down. I have to finish this girl off quickly or Joe's going to be in trouble. Lucky that the Career seems to enjoy playing with his prey.

With a lunge, I knock Rosemary's sword out of her hand and use the pommel of my sword to knock her out. Even knowing how bloodthirsty she is, I can't bear to kill her.

But I'm not fast enough. The Career has hold of Joe and is pulling him away from the tree. Suddenly, just a few yards from the tree, the metal collar around Joe's neck—which I hadn't noticed before—began to beep.

"No!" Joe yelled, flailing, trying to crawl back to his tree and his daughter. "You have to let me go! The collar will—"

But Julius just laughs harder as he drags Joe. Suddenly, with a giant flash, the collar explodes. Julius stands, stunned, covered in blood. There is no cannon, but I don't wait for the implications to sink in—I run toward the tree, take a running leap onto the lowest branch, and clamber up to where Tally lays, still crying. I grab her up, and, one handed, make my descent. Rosemary is still out cold and Julius, clearly not the brightest tribute in the arena, still stands shocked and bloody. Carrying my precious bundle, I run back into the surrounding forest, heading for an area of thicker trees.

There's still no cannon, and slowly I realize that the Gamemakers don't think Joe counts as a death. He was only a guardian, not a tribute. Saddened, I shake my head. I will make sure Tally wins these Games, and knows what her dad did for her. This is the most important thing I could do with my life.


	30. TRY TO SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE

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**A/N: Things are starting to heat up! (pun) R/R, please! Also, if you'd like to submit tributes to my new story, The Fourth Quarter Quell, you can find the tribute form on my profile and the details in the prologue of the story. I still need many tributes. **

CHAPTER THIRTY – TRY TO SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE

_Remy Tennant, 19, D5. 10:45 p.m._

Carissa and I are watching the empty Career camp, wondering if this is a trap. We know they've split up; we watched their huge fight earlier today. The only two Careers left in the alliance aren't exactly geniuses, but it seems too good to be true that they've really left all their supplies unattended.

Still, they've been gone for hours and I can't wait any longer. "I'm going down," I hiss at Carissa. She nods, and we slide out from behind the tree and make our way down the beach to the Cornucopia. I tell her, "Food," and go to find some weapons. In just a few minutes we've made some glorious finds, including a set of knives and a javelin. I use some cord to make a holster and tie the javelin to my back, stowing the knives under my shirt. On the other side of the Cornucopia, Carissa is shoveling food and water into several packs. Just as she's about to finish up, I stop her.

"Wait," I say, fishing into the pack for something I saw her throw in. "Quick, put all the supplies in the mouth of the Cornucopia." She complies while I find what I was looking for and run back to the beach for some wood. When I return, Carissa looks at me questioningly, and I motion at her to back away. Once she's done so, I pile the wood around the Cornucopia, and then take out the matches I'd seen her pack up. I light a match, transfer the fire to another piece of driftwood, and throw it into the Cornucopia. For a few seconds, I'm worried the ploy won't work, but soon enough I see some flames creeping around the piled brush, and licking at what used to be the Careers' supplies.

I smile, satisfied, and Carissa and I run into the forest before anyone finds what we've done.

_Reed Florian, 25, D11. 11 p.m._

I hear fire.

Slowly, so slowly, I turn my head. It hurts every second of the way, but I am rewarded with the sight of crackling flames. I am torn. If I stay here, the lightning will come again. But what if it doesn't'? I can see the flames coming from the center of the arena, but I am not anxious to leave this spot. It hurts so much. The fire has never hurt me this badly before, but I have never been in the middle of it, either.

But the promise of flames to come could never have tempted me as much as the ones in front of me. Whatever is burning, it must be big. And inferno in the arena. How can I resist? Slowly, painfully, I shift position, crawling on knees turned red and raw by the flames, every movement rubbing skin from them. Tears leak from my eyes, the salt sending burning tracks down my face. But it will be worth it when I get to the fire. Although the lightning has been nice, its fires are extinguished quickly, as if the Gamemakers don't want it to spread. I can already tell that the bonfire I'm heading toward will be so much better, bigger, grander.

Suddenly, a foot comes down on my back, pushing me into the ground and sending agony arcing through my body. The foot lifts from my back and the toe nudges my side, forcing me to roll over. I'm looking up at two girls. One, with dark skin, curly brown hair, and light blue eyes, smiles at me sweetly. She's pretty. She's also the one whose foot is on top of my chest, pressing down and making it hard for me to breathe. The other, shorter, with lighter skin and hair, not as pretty, looks worried. "Carissa," the short one says, "Shouldn't we get out of here? The Careers may be back any minute."

The girl called Carissa just laughs and pulls out a knife. I think she may be crazy. Her smile gets wider, but there doesn't seem to be any happiness in it, and her eyes don't quite seem to focus on me. "Don't worry, Remy. The fire won't spread, the Careers are stupid, and this won't take long. Doesn't look like he'll be around much longer anyway."

"Fine," Remy replies, "but at least make it quick."

Carissa's boot loosens from my chest, and I suck in a breath, turning my head so I can see the fire. I sigh. So pretty. Above me Carissa says, "What, you like the fire, freak?" I look back at her. She puts away the knife and rummages in her pack instead. Suddenly I hear the whisper of a match striking. I whip my head around in time to see Carissa holding a lit match. My eyes widen as I see her face glow in the light of the flame. It's so beautiful. She's so beautiful.

"Like that, do you?" she asks teasingly, and I don't know what she's after, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is the beautiful, beautiful fire.

"Yes," I whisper, my voice almost gone. For just that second, nothing hurts. Nothing can ever hurt when I'm so close to the fire. Then it's gone, as she drops the burning match directly onto my chest. The fire goes out and the pain is unbearable. "No!" I try to scream but my voice can't raise above a whisper.

Again and again, Carissa lights a match and extinguishes it against my skin. I don't know which is worse: the pain from the burns, or watching the light go out.

Carissa's companion seems unhappy with the way things are going. "Carissa," she keeps saying, "is this really necessary?" But Cariss just ignores her, continuing to light and drop matches. Teasing me, torturing me.

Finally, the other girl gets tired. "That's it, Carissa. No more. I don't want to have this kind of alliance. I'm leaving. Don't bother to follow me."

She should be glad she can't see the look on Carissa's face when she says this. She scowls, frowns, her eyebrows raising and then lowering to nearly meet over her nose. She's not pretty anymore. "You can't leave this alliance," she mutters, too low for the other girl to hear. "You don't leave the alliance until I say you do!" But the other girl's already gone.

Quickly, Carissa's face rearranges to become mild and sweet again, but I've seen the truth. "Take away my father," she mutters to herself, "take away my family, take away my alliance… No more. Not anymore. Not gonna put up with with. Nope." She looks down at me, realizing I'm still here and then, with barely a shrug, pulls out her knife again and slices across my neck. As I feel the pain deepening, she picks up her backpack, throws it over her shoulder, and takes off at a run after her former ally, red knife gleaming in the light reflected off the flames still burning through the trees. I want to turn to see the fire one more time, but I have no strength left.


End file.
